The poets have muddied all the little fountains. Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house? O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa, Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you. My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert. O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa; And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samma And in the valley of Motethalem! Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away. Now is the dwelling of Abla In a valley of men who roar like lions. It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram. * * * * Abla is a green rush That feeds beside the water. But they have taken her to Oneiza And my tribe feeds in lazy Ghailam valley. They fixed the going, and the camels Waked in the night and evilly prepared. I was afraid when I saw the camels Standing ready among the tents And eating grain to make them swift I counted forty-two milk camels, Black as the wings of a black crow. White and purple are the lilies of the valley, But Abla is a branch of flowers. Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla? Antara (6th century) Translated by E. Powys Mathers, An Anthology of World Poetry, ed. M. V. Doren, 1928; p. 86-87