The river Golu tells
About hours, drops
Of eternity.
The south-western wind
Caresses the baby hours
Of liberty,
The sun gilds
The peaks over there
And my singing
Still calls you.
Corsican land,
Tell me if you can
Hear my torments,
Corsican land.
They are highlanders,
Men rooted here;
From other lands
They are rejected
But they are here,
They are your sons
And even more.
When it’s time
Respond you too,
Corsican people,
For the last time
Tell them that you are
The loud singing.