I, Your bride, wish to settle
my head upon strengthened shoulders.
My burdens have labored my breath, yet
I have done nothing more than lay on
desert sand, in wait for pleasant speech.
The water canteen is empty.
I fill inside with sand beneath to know I
am not lonely.
It is clear-spring has died within,
My eyes must be deceiving this
But, oh sweet songs of the birds have
come to waken thee-
even the leaves are turning down,
making a path to drink from a well of
My bridegroom-I see You, I am coming!
Wait, please-don’t leave me this way.
Weeping over the cross from which
death called You away.
A veil of mourning covering my face,
left with Beloved dreams-
a mirage I will never touch in this