O Satiada, protector of multitudes,
of those who held together in rich times and poor,
who shared one another’s greatest joys and sorrows,
silent one who keeps close her land and her people,
who keeps close her secrets, goddess, I call to you.
The shadowed folk of the south, hidden by the years,
their tales untold, their songs unsung, their names long lost,
they spoke your name in prayer, they carved it into stone,
a final remembrance, a token of a faith
held still in blood and bone, felt by each beating heart,
spoken with each breath, each footfall on the ancient ground.
Satiada, I praise you, I honor your might.