That tribe of prophets with the burning eyes
    Is on the road, their babies on their backs,
    Who satisfy their appetite attacks
    With treasured breasts that always hang nearby.

    On foot, with weapons shining, go the men
    Beside the carts in which their people lie,
    With sorrow-laden eyes searching the sky,
    Yearning for vanished chimeras again.

    The cricket, as he sees them pass along,
    Deep in his lair redoubles his shrill song;
    Cybele, their friend, augments her greenery,

    Turns rocks to springs, brings flowers from the sand
    Before these sojourners, empowered to see
    Their future darkness, that familiar land.