Thou, the abode of omnipotent forces,
Flowing waves freely in the sands,
So mellifluous as playing of lyre,
In the ill-fatted Orpheus’ hands.

Which wave is the winning wave,
In the never-ending race you have;
Racing restless as Danaides’ task,
Fling the pebbles with thine steady heave.

Glide straight the eagles aloft high,
With their talons open to catch the crabs,
That crawl on the shore the waves nigh,
Swift as Achilles on his feet is.

Naught thou art before the mysteries,
Hidden deep in our human hearts,
Chaining themselves with Evils infinite,
Chasing to Death the Good of all sorts.