River which parts too early, in one go, without a companion,
Give to the children of my countryside the face of your passion,

River where the flash of lightning ends and where my home begins,
Which rolls all the way right up to the footsteps of oblivion, the rocky ground of my reason,

River, in you the earth shudders, there is sun, anxiety,
Would that every poor man in his night make his bread of your harvest,

River often punished, river abandoned to its course,

River of apprentices to a callused condition,
There is no wind that does not weaken at the crests of your furrows,

River of the empty spirit, of rags and suspicion,
Of an old misfortune unravelling itself, of the elm, of compassion,

River of eccentrics, of the feverish, of stone cutters,
Of the sun which lets go of its plow to sink to the level of liers

River of those who are better than oneself, river of blossoming fogs,
Of the lamp which quenches the anxiety around its hat,

River of consideration given to dreams, river which rusts iron,
Where the stars are of that shade that they refuse to the sea,

River of powers transmitted and of a scream that enters the water's mouth
Of the hurricane which bites the vine and announces the new wine

River of a heart never destroyed in this world mad for prison,
Keep us violent and friendly to the horizon's bees.