We are pale from the dust of dreamless nights
Shaken before we were rested—
At dawn we are found by the sun
Adrift, labouring, thinking of nothing—
Our wine is bitter, it has made us drunk,
Our bread is coarse,
We are always athirst and hungry....
O God, we have been patient,
We have grown old in weariness,
Our lives are as the labouring of the wind—