My heart is never with Galilee
knowing history’s sacks and pyres,
my heart belongs to Thessaly
with wine and lyrics incessantly
red as the welcoming witches’ fires.
My heart is never with Galilee,
whose dreams had sprung so verdantly
because, in a world of strange desires,
my heart belongs to Thessaly.
Poseidon rules my mystic sea
and I sing along with nightingale lyres--
my heart is never with Galilee,
but ever it dreams thus, magically
witnessing the constellations’ gyres:
my heart belongs to Thessaly.
Sing thus wildflowers fragrantly:
weave a wreathe to wear since, for me,
my heart is never with Galilee,
my heart belongs to Thessaly.