I have not sung you, my country,
not brought glory to your name
with the great deeds of a hero or the spoils a battle yields.
But on the shores of Jordan my hands have planted a tree, and my feet have made a pathway
through your fields.
Modest are the gifts I bring you.
I know this, mother.
Modest, I know the offerings of your daughter:
Only an outburst of song
on a day when the light flares up,
only a silent tear
for your poverty.