Come darling, sit by my side and weep. I have no lyre, no melodious voice or chant. I meditate on the Zion I could never grant you. My son, my roe deer, my rock-rent stream. My honeysuckle, my salt, my golden spear. Forgive me your birth in this strange land. I wanted your infant kisses, your fists clasped round my neck. I craved you, though you were born in the wake of my illness, my dim prognosis. I was selfish: I willed you this woe, this world. You inherited exile for my sake.