Far from the king’s henchmen
the lion no longer rampant
weeps guetty argent on a field of sable.

*
*
*

Speak bitterness, Lancka.

*
*
*

Roel, I cannot tell you
that I came to love your country.
I would have given up all the earth for you,
but the desert did not relinquish me
and all my dreams still dwell in the dust.

Now I have no more poems to give away;
I know my exile and I go there gladly,
to the thunder-covered land.