ب َنَتْ صُورُ لِنَفْسَها قَلعَةً. كَوَّمَتِ الفِضَّةَ كَالتُّرابِ، وَالذَّهَبَ كَطِينِ الشَّوارِعِ.
For Tyre built herself a fortress And piled up silver like dust, And gold like the mire of the streets.