The pressure in the air changes, and the camels
lift their heads. Women wearing oils sing,
“Matariel, Matariel,” and come into the tents.
Would the richest earth sate the olive grove?
What can crystal yield? Stone of aqueducts
sings, “Matariel,” for what it makes whole.
The newborn sings, “Matariel,”
in memory of her loss.
I faced you at Samarkand as it wet our plate,
dripping through the chain mail beneath
to cool the skin. “Matariel,” you sang,
and I lowered my shield.
O lonely fountain, bless us mortals that dwell beneath you
Let our gratefulness abate your sadness
Let our prayers reach you, lonely Matariel
All men and beasts seek your embrace
We beg that you may stretch your hand out to us
So we may continue to praise your generosity
O great muse of rain, O sustainer of life
We patiently await your blessing