The poet's clan has long lived in submission to a more aggressive group, but was driven at this time, to rebel. And what you hear is the he-goat I skin for them. A lyric of advantages. 100 camels. And if all that I swear does not as I swear it, come to pass... May those who of their own free will performed menial tasks for infidels, babble prayers of exact reversal. And may those who were forced gain the will of 1000 camels. And with a memory as short as that of a kept woman, a young dandy sets out to choose. Or maybe that fate is too vulgar. A longer memory, but with more effective distortions. Like the city we live in becoming a safety and a colony avenging fate reaching a fact the heart can feel ahead of the intellect. No more unjust, in other words, logical, thought. Such a generous limitation evidence/evidence/lyricism/ leads us to ourselves
