That she is kinder than the soulless sand,
For in the end she shall be good to me,
Embrace me tired within her mother-arms
And so shall give me peace. Yet still I curse
Her, for her luring brought me unto this:
Had she not called me those long summer nights
With soft seductive cadence and sweet words
I should not now be waiting here for death.
Life is a ceaseless hunt for turtle’s eggs.
(O humorous employment!) Day on day