Carry the child, wrap her up warm,
Lift her gently into the litter.
Take her away from this place so forlorn
Where the land freezes hard and the living is bitter.
Let the camels walk soft, so their footfalls don’t wake her.
Let her sleep deep, and never forsake her.
For she is the precious, the pure light of ages,
Her spirit aglow, though the storm round her rages.
Cross the Great Waste, where winds cough and splutter,
And gaunt lobo wolves scent the camels and mutter.
Then turn to the south when the storm is abating.
Head for the Country of Bliss that is waiting.
Carry the child, though it take seven seasons,
Do not turn aside whatever the reason.
And when you arrive, lay her down in warm sand,
For she will be Mother in that promised land.