In the dew upon the grass, an ancient echo stirs,
the joy of Whitman is reborn,
but in Éire, realm of perennial drizzle,
under the moon, the story is woven,
in the shadow, the scar on Cain’s face,
dreamed by Borges, the hero of double visage,
subtle betrayals and imperceptible heroism of anonymous souls.

Éire, threshold of enigmas,
where the veils of the world are lifted,
and the moon, in its cold dance,
gleams with secrets in its leaden light.
So we stand, on the brink of the abyss,
at the gates of purgatory,
seeking that sacred Isle,
in the heart of a mystical lake.

Barefoot, we tread its path,
the end will come silently and so sudden,
so final, that not even the thief could foresee it.
In Éire, the portal between worlds,
where the eternal and the mundane intertwine,
I long to breathe, lying on its shrouded hills,
and feel in the damp grass, the stillness of prayer.

Oh, Éire, realm of mysteries and feuds,
the place where the rainbow falls,
the night keeps its own time,
we wait, in silence, for God’s new day,
which will be spring and summer,
in the ever-living green of your soil.