You have always shifted glances,
Little woman, atop the waves,
To where people groan, like the land with its quakes.
Love would not hold you,
Little maid, atop the waves.
What made you breathe water, when you could breathe bliss?
And your stances,
With rowing dances.
With movement, and no improvement,
Because, a man would not raise you, from where you float.
He’d not see beneath himself,
To see the world’s tears, flooding from your eyes.