The return

Ulysses leaves, the wind in his sails,

toward Ithaca on the well-loved waves.

The rolling seas rock and fold.

Offshore from his heart the vast sea,

where his eye follows the white birds,

scatters precious stones.

Ulysses leaves, the wind in his sails,

toward Ithaca on the well-loved waves.

Bent, with serious eye and beating heart,

over his galley's golden bowsprit,

when the seas are black he laughs at his anger,

for his dear son, pious and proud,

waits for the victory of his father's arms

after brilliant combats.

He dreams, with serious eye and beating heart,

on his galley's golden bowsprit.

Ulysses leaves, the wind in his sails,

toward Ithaca on the well-loved waves.