Before the first sparkling of daylight,
You will see them amidst darkness,
Water hunters from different heights,
At every springs of well, notwithstanding the thickness.
Kids praying for another summer,
Moving around with broken lips,
Like Elijah of the old days hills,
They are the season hunter.
Won't the eyes of the heaven be opened,
To see kids missing alphabetized,
And the soul of the wounded crying out to be helped.
During the sun first brightening,
You will still see them, like wild donkey in the desert,
Gathering folder in the fields
While the children hug the rock for lack of shelters.