Aletha, that queen whose blessed hands filled the mouths
Of her people in her kingdom, that bright one in the South
Whose fair face and fair judgment are as pure as the white clouds
Whose heart and spirit, the Muses sing about
For, though you lay sick, your works will be done, your life will be sung
Your people will not forget your name, your great story will run
And your fields will never die, nor your waters dry
Though the earth soon shall send back fair Aletha to the sky.
