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The Ribera, the Ribera, the breadth of your fields is limited by the sky. Will the sweet lands eagerly receive the intentions that flow into your fertile lands? The past that your old castles keep hidden speaks of its pain in sad sighs. On the old, cracked walls, the birds are singing, reporting the silent sleep of centuries. Old brother Navarre, may the first spark of the legend be with you, that dream of the ancestors.