The sun stands proud in the heavens as you wait atop your hill, free from the flocks of sheep for this day, for your bride-to-be, the radiant Ninurisa of Eridu.

She arrives at the appointed hour, when the sun reaches its zenith, borne in a cart drawn by twelve steeds.

Her relatives accompany her, laden with precious gifts. She approaches, her arms crossed and her head held high, a proud city-born woman. She scorns the humble shepherds, while they, in turn, mock the daintiness of the city folk.

"...Father," she declares, her head turning back with regal disdain, "I shall not be bound to the shepherd, whose woolen garb is coarse and rough. I will take as my husband the farmer, who grows the flax that adorns me and the barley that sustains me."