Erribera

By the riverbank, by the riverbank,
into the wide expanse of your land
where the sun sets
it is limited.

In your fertile land
the intentions that are poured
will firmly grasp
the joyful lands.

Your old castles
that have long been hidden
speak in sad tones
of their pain.

On the old crumbling walls
birds are singing
condemning the silent sleep
of the mountain.

Old Navarre
the first note of the song
of the storyteller
in the eyes of the old trees.