I call to Abelio of the wandering tribes,
lord of the fair land of the mountain-foot,
lord of the apple-wood, master of the fruitful tree
from which great tales arose; sweet are your blessings,
and sweet is the season of your greatest strength,
when the land offers up its bounty, when we reap
the reward of a summer’s sweat. Abelio,
god who stands alone, god who yet bears his name,
once you were honored in the deep river valley,
your image carved in stone, your altars set in sod,
where men and women prayed to you in tribute ,
asked your favor, praised your gifts; I hail your might.