O Apollôn who pours forth arrows
running like rainwater through furrows,
shield us from your volley, grant us health,
that precious state worth more than all wealth,
to weather the pandemic this year.
O Apollôn who protects streetways,
grant us crucial goods without delays.
As we cross thresholds with new unease,
keep our hands from touching this disease.
May alertness kick into high gear.
O Apollôn, averting all ills,
come with Hygeia who deftly fills
mind, body, and soul with common sense
— for public health the surest defense —
that to her guidance we may adhere.
O Apollôn, if we should fall sick,
send great Asklêpios to come quick,
inspiring our doctors’ guiding hands,
to cure us as much as Fate withstands.
May his healing touches remain near.
O Apollôn whose pillar stands high,
grounded in Gê, reaching the wide sky,
we pray that goodness alone touches
our lives, that illness’ severe clutches,
O Lord of Plague, fail to seize us here.