Once more the minstrel raised his voice to song, and anger was in his eyes:
The pure white flower grew up in the way
Where the wild cat’s whelp went forth to play.
And the whelp rent the flower for the gold within,
And a child slew the whelp for its soft warm skin.
And the lion slew the child for a draught of blood,
And the river swept the lion away in its flood.
And the gods dried the river in its deep stone bed,
And all from the flower to the stream were dead.
We are things that the gods make sport upon: