The moon's a brazen water-keg,
A wondrous water-feast.
If I could climb the sands and drink
And give drink to my beast,
If I could drain that keg, the flies
Would not be biting so,
My burning feet be spry again,
My mule no longer slow,
And I could rise and dig for ore
And reach my fatherland,
And not be food for ants and hawks,
And perish in the sand.