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You herbs, born at the birth of time
More ancient than the gods themselves.
O Plants, with this hymn I sing to you
our mothers and our gods.
The holy fig tree is your home.
A thousand are your growths.
You, who have a thousand powers,
Free this my patient from disease.
Fly, Spirit of Disease.
Be gone with the blue jay and the Kingfisher. Fly with the wind's impetuous
speed.
Vanish together with the storm.
Most excellent of all are you, O Plants.
Your vassals are the trees.
Let him be subject to your powers
The man who seeks to injure you.
When restoring vanished strength
I hold you herbs within my hand.
And the Spirit of Disease departs,
Cheated of another death.
Reliever is your mother's name.
Hence, restorers are you called.
Rivers are you, with wings that fly.
Keep distant that which brings disease.
Unharmed be he who digs you up. Unharmed the man for whom I dig.
And let no malady destroy
The lives within your guardianship.
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