My heart is pierced by sorrow
For my eyes see not the angel
That used to make my pride swell.
She it was who made my heart glad
Like a poor beggar clad
In the raiment’s of a king;
Would not his soul sing?
You are not the damsel I met
By the river washing the fishing net
Yes! You are not the angel I knew
With whom my cares were few
For then, your eyes were mild
But now they be stern and wild
Like those of a heathen savage
Stalking a foe in fitful rage.
Now, as I look into your eyes
Deeper into my heart the arrow bites
For I see snarling in there
That which strangles my heart with fear.
There in your eyes prowls a threat
And it has seized my breath
And your words carry a sword
Which into my heart has bored
My dove, where is thy spirit
For you are nothing but chaff without it
And what use is the husk of a corn
When the useful grain is gone?
The fruit of the palm will not be sought
If the kernel lies not inside the nut.
What use is the deep well in a drought
When the water is all dried out?
So now my blood I pour out
As libation to the Gods of love about
Praying that your spirit return
From whence it has gone
And even if it’d be outside the gate
Earnestly will I wait
Hoping for your well of love to fill
Because I love you still.