1. And a daughter of land, who did not leave it out of indifference,

    The sea has only lately become acquainted with her.

  2. She shuns it, though its draught is limpid,

    So she grants it no pure affection,

  3. Except when bound and fastened beside it.

    When she shed her mantles of brocade

  4. And draped herself in a cloak of night's darkness,

    She stood at the center of a weir of hard stone slabs,

  5. And resembled the central jewel in a necklace,

    Overlooking the delegation's riding camels,

  6. As though she were the mother of the dusky-gray ostriches.

    Her clamor grayed the temple-hair of beardless youths.

  7. She yearns for the land—what longing!

    She remembered the sweetness of its moist, clumped soil,

  8. The days when she was nourished on fruit like honey,

    And lightning's flash and thunder's plaintive rumble.

  9. So she repeats a moan and gives it voice,

    As one bound in fetters moans.

  10. Were it not for the tension of the outstretched rope,

    She would have girded herself like a woman in earnest,

  11. Then clasped the earth's cheek with her own.

Sol 6.1