America, give heed: this is no flight of herons nor of angels… Those are wings which cover the broad skyline, piercing the clouds, challenging the winds:
- Give me your breeze, oh sea, your pure breeze to appease my voice and my inner core!
- Give me Lord your grace and your lungs to hold fast their air with my veins!
Such a small country, spread on an isthmus
where the sky is clearer, the sun brighter;
all your music echoes within me, like the sea
in the small cell of the conch.