What is there in my heart but dust?
My tent stands abandoned,
its door flapping forlornly in the vacant wind.
My hearth is cold,
the fires have long been extinguished.
When will the cooling breeze come?
When will the easing dew again paint the lawn?
The desert has intruded into my camp
and the figs have ceased to bloom.
Come back my zephyr,
come back and ease this cruel day.
Come back and remake my desolate home.
