The Friend is toggling me like a camel; in what train is He dragging His drunken camel?
He wounded my soul and body, He broke my glass, He bound my neck—to what task is He drawing me?
His net is carrying me like a fish to the shore; His snare is drawing my heart towards the Master of the chase.
He who makes the train of clouds, like camels under the sky, to water the plain, is drawing me over mountain and cavern.
The thunder beats its drum; particle and whole have become alive; the scent of spring is wafting in the twig’s heart and the marrow of the rose.
He who makes the recesses of the seed to be the cause of the fruit, He is dragging the secret of the tree’s heart up to the gallows.
The grace of springtide breaks the pain of the garden’s cropsickness, even though the cruelty of winter is still drawing towards crop-sickness.
