Drenched by mountain rains, they huddle against the rocks for want of shelter.
Those who once ate delicacies are destitute in the streets; those brought up in crimson huddle in ash heaps.
I sleep, but my heart is awake. A sound! My beloved is knocking: “Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my flawles
The world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and hid in caves and holes in the ground.