Where mountain roots hold hidden streams,
And silver waters rise,
There walks the keeper of the springs
Beneath the open skies.
No thunder speaks his ancient name,
No battlefield recalls;
His temple stands where healing flows
And quiet water falls.
Grannus, lord of shining wells,
Where weary hands are cleansed,
You gather wounds and carry pain
Away on currents bent.
The fevered come with hope in hearts,
The broken seek your light;
The waters answer gently back
And restore the fading sight.
Apollo\'s name was joined with yours
When Rome crossed Celtic land;
Yet still the ancient springs remember
The first and older hand.
For every stream that leaves the earth,
For every warm spring\'s breath,
There lies a promise carried on—
Renewal stronger than death.
So let the waters sing your praise,
Let stones preserve your name;
The healing river runs forever,
Though kingdoms fall like flame.