When he pulls it out and it comes out of his back, the gleaming point out of his liver, terrors come over him.

Its underparts are the sharp points of potsherds, it leaves its mark in the mud like a threshing sledge.

Whoever strikes it with a sword will have no effect, nor with the spear, arrow, or dart.

On it the quiver rattles; the lance and javelin flash.

Can you fill its hide with harpoons or its head with fishing spears?

It lives on a rock and spends the night there, on a rocky crag and a fortress.