Jug, pitcher we possess not; drink we naught but tears.
By day, our only raiment’s scorching solar heat;
Our bedclothes in the night, the moon’s rays pale and sweet.
The disk of Luna we may well imagine bread.
Our hands we lift to heaven; keen hunger’s pangs we dread.5
E’en mendicants feel shame at our dire poverty.
Our days are dark as night, through drear adversity.
Our kindred, as all strangers, sight of us now shun.
Just like the wandering Jew, for fear we should them dun.[283]
When I would borrow half a handful of lentils,