He travels after a winter sun,​​
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,​​
Calling to them, a voice they know,​​
He drives his beasts above Cabra.​​

The voice tells them home is warm,​​
They moo and they make brute music with their hoofs.​​
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,​​
Smoke pluming their foreheads.​​

Boor, bond of the herd,​​
Tonight stretch full by the fire!​​
I bleed by the black stream​
For my torn bough!​​