Not far from my native land, the Pyrenees -
Which up to this point have flapped their tormented wings -
Are posed like a flight of buzzards on a meadow.

They are the same color as the minerals they carry,
In their various nets of snow.

Cantaoü-Tuzaguet! How much lighter my heart becomes
When I see your plain mingling with the sky.

I realize it would be enough for me to return to God,
To become the child again I was in my village
Who touched his fingers to the mountains and clouds.