O Muse, who guides the starry chariots through the gloom of night,
Inspire me to sing of the return of the courageous son,
Who wandered long between the iron storms and stone roads of war.
Sing of the steadfast pilgrim who beheld cities razed by flame,
And fields where the wind mixes memory with ash.
Sing of him who carried the inextinguishable warmth of home in his breast –
The sacred fire of his ancestors.
He returned through endless plains and the echoes of menacing cannons,
Amidst nights torn by the lightning of human wrath.
He walked the stormy paths of fate, like a labyrinth,
Where every step was a challenge to the heavens and every morning a new oath.
But at last – the native horizon, quiet and bright,
Like the smile of a mother waiting patiently on the threshold.
And the traveler’s fatigue fell from his shoulders like old armor,
For the earth, recognized once more, received him gently –
Like a son who has returned from a long, thorny path.
The New Ithaca
23