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I have been stricken  like a  fool who utters all his mind,
And the fullness of the hope that I desire is still deferred.
So shall I say I am not sick?
I have been beaten like a mad man smitten with a wounded spirit;
And the blessings I gave is counted as a curse to me.
So shall I say I felt it not?
I hurt.
When shall I awake?
This nightmare is not my dream,
And now like those who tarry long at wine,
They that go to seek mixed wine, when it is sparkling in the cup,
I have woe and sorrow.
I have redness of eyes and wounds without cause.
I have contentions and babblings within.
My soul was full, but now it's hungry,
And every bitter thing is sweet:
My eyes are surrounded by strange women, but they are narrow pits.
My heart utters perverse things, but a wise man keeps it in till afterwards.
So I shall not be as him that lieth down in the midst of the sea
Or as he that lieth upon the top of the mast.
Yet, my heart is heavy.
I hurt.
So let me drink and forget my poverty, and remember my misery no more.
Give this burdened soul the red wine that makes glad the heart of man
And the vessel which holds it.
Give this thirsty soul the cold waters of refreshing
And the river from which it flows.
Give this hungry soul the sweet honey that strengthens the mind of a man
And the honeycomb from which it drips
Give this longing soul golden apples of life
And the tree which bears them,
For the soul of this turtledove is given to you, just as all of this turtledove is yours.
Yet he mourns, and when doves cry, the die.
The dream fades, but the nightmare ceases,
So when shall I awake?
This nightmare is not my dream.
My heart again is sick; my heart again feels pain.
I have been stricken and beaten.
I hurt.
Where is the fullness of the hope 
That I thought I first received; where is the blessing?
I will seek it yet again that if haply my heart might be fulfilled
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