Icauna of the flowing waters, river-mother,
life’s-blood of the land, yours are the vine-laden hills,
yours the stream of gold and goods that grew your town
to greatness, that brought you men of wealth and appetite.
You felt the feet of multitudes upon your ground,
your roads worn down to dirt, laid down in stone;
you marked well the stories of soldier and citizen,
each life embraced, each fate and fortune bound to your own.
Icauna of the hidden tales, the broken book,
yours is the drunken wolf, the humble householder
with strength and will enough to safeguard home and kin.
I call to you, Icauna; I offer you my praise.