You lift me up, oh land of Castile,
in the rough palm of your hand,
to the sky that kindles you and refreshes you,
the sky, your master.

Oh strong-sinewed, lean, clear land,
mother of hearts and arms,
in you the present takes on old colors
from the noble past.

Your naked fields border round
the concave meadows of the sky,
the sun finds in you its cradle, its tomb
and its sanctuary.

Your round-extension is all summit
and in you I feel myself raised to the sky;
the air of mountain-tops is what one breathes
here, in your moors.

Gigantic altar, land of Castile,
into your air I will send forth my songs;
if they are worthy of you, they will come back to earth
down from on high!