But now those younger than I mock me, whose fathers I refused to put beside my sheepdogs.
Their strength, what's it to me, their energy having perished?
Stiff from want and hunger, those who gnaw dry ground, yesterday's desolate waste,
who pluck off the leaves on a bush, the root of the broom— a shrub is their food.
People banish them from society, shout at them as if to a thief;
so they live in scary ravines, holes in the ground and rocks.
Among shrubs, they make sounds like donkeys; they are huddled together under a bush,
children of fools and the nameless, whipped out of the land.