1. Many a son of Tha'labah, his hands numbed with cold,
Sheltering them in his armpits, complains of fate,

2. A quiver, with its arrows, slung across his back,
Its string not hummed by plucking, on his shoulder,

3. When there came to him wild beasts to water,
He recoiled, startled, and drew his bow with his right hand,

4. And let fly his arrows right into their drinking-place,
Or their lair, opposite the pond,

5. With feathers from his quills, that glanced off sparks,
Like fire flickering out from glowing embers.

6. Their feathers he chose carefully,
Then despatched them with practiced aim.

7. Yet his shooting brought no profit,
He had no tribe to back his valor.

8. Only feeding the game, with none but himself
To earn his bread, burdened by age.

9. I left behind a loved companion there,
Yet shed no tears at his departure.

10. And a cousin I bequeathed pure water
From the pond's depth, undisturbed.

11. Converse with the caravan that day,
Converse that left no trace.

12. And for a cousin there I keen
Like the moon's waning glow.