It floats about, that boat of cypress wood; Yea, it floats about on the current. Disturbed am I and sleepless, As if suffering from a painful wound. It is not because I have no wine, And that I might not wander and saunder about.
My anxious heart is full of trouble; I am hated by the herd of mean creatures; I meet with many distresses; I receive insults not a few. Silently I think of my case, And, starting as from sleep, I beat my breast.
There are the sun and moon, - How is it that the former has become small, and not the latter? The sorrow cleaves to my heart, Like an unwashed dress. Silently I think of my case, But I cannot spread my wings and fly away.