My uncle has thoroughbred mares, whose distant sires
Are counted in our tribes since the ancient times,
Gentle and timid as daughters of the Guebla[[7]].
You would say they were gazelles
Feeding in the valleys under the eye of their dams.
To see them, is to forget the authors of our days.
Covered with djellals[[8]] which make our flowers look pale,
They march like Sultanas attired for a fête,
A negro of Kora[[9]] tends them,
Gives them pure barley, and milk to drink,