How alone sits
the city that never sleeps!
Made like a widow--
mistress of the nations;
Princess of provinces--
made to pay tribute.
To wee hours, wailing,
snuffled tears, rubbered cheeks.
To comfort her, there is none— no,
not none of her darlings— All
her lovers returning— turned
treacherous.
Judah packed off– worked with welts,
so soon sated of subservience–
sent to squat among the peoples–
scraping up no rest. Fists of old friends
outpace her limp, seize
the wheezing opportunity.
Zion’s roads mourn-- because there
are none--- coming to celebrate
all her gates-- undone
her priests-- wailing
her maidens-- wretched,
she herself-- wrung out like a ready again reek-rag.
She, prostrated, as the general stands--
She, rolled, as the liaisons loot–
Over her, established, the LORD
has them– for her sprawling crimes;
She whimpers tiny fingers— the toddlers
led off, slaves and foremen’s faces.
From Zion’s daughter has marched
all her elegance. Her princes--
heavy horned rams finding no fodder
nor moss or stubble– slipped away
like their strength and their bravado
before the gleam and flush of the pursuer’s jangle.
Lamentations 1:1-6 vlg/bti
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