Emesh, my brother, you should not praise yourself; whatever harvest produce you bring as gifts to the palace has not been made by your toil: you should not brag. As if you were the one who had done the hard work, as if you had done the farming.
The slave Emesh, the duly-appointed labourer who will never rest from his toil, a hired man who has to return to the fields of the Land for his own sustenance.
Emesh, my brother, … although you have gathered all things in the Land and filled the storehouses, in all my strength I am their owner when your limbs become tired.
I am 's help, for her I sweeten the beer.
Cold water, the tribute of the hills.