My head is a grape of vine.
A quivering curtain.
A coil of veins.
Pits tightly packed in a membrane.
My body melts like wax
On fire. My thoughts
Are frail as cobweb.
You who see everything, you did not guard me
As the apple of your eye.
You who sleep in everything, you did not
Let me have
A quiet night’s sleep.
You, who in your heart bear every law,
Who created the fish and the bird,
And the wavering growth,
Why did you, oh Lord, turn your face on me?
Why did you let me see you?
For I know very well the fate
Of the one who sees your face?
You who rule over all,
Your power unchallenged.
You whose arms spread into infinity,
Why, between your thumb and index finger,
Between heaven and earth,
You squeeze my head?
Why, oh Lord?
Opaque and bitter is
The juice from my head.