I call to Catubodua, mother of battle,
mother of victory, as fierce and fond as any
whose children ever wept. Catubodua!
The raven’s cry is yours, O goddess, razor-sharp,
and the unceasing gaze of that black-winged soul;
yours are the farmlands, the fields of grain long rooted
in the blood-fed soil, yours are the peaks that cleave the land,
yours the voices of the faithful, echoing
through mount and vale. Your lands are lovely, goddess,
as radiant and rare as any in all the world,
a beauty torn from sorrow, built upon joy.
Catubodua, I offer my words of praise.