Enough now from the cry dush—“dismount”—I have remained far from my road; enough from the cry qush—“set off”—I have missed my tent.
When will you deliver me from this qush? When will you deliver me from this dush, that I may arrive at your prosperity, at my moon and threshing floor?
Though I am happy on the journey over plain and mountain and valley, in your love, O sun of splendor, timely and untimely,
Yet where is the broad highway? Where is the sight and justice of the king? Especially for me, consumed in yearning for my king.
How long must I ask news of you from the zephyr? How long must I seek your moon’s image in the water of my well?
I have been burnt up a hundred ways like the garden, and likewise I have learned from spring—in both states I am dumbfounded at the handiwork of my God.
