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