Down by the river I sat and wept when I remembered Zion.

There on the poplar I hung my harp, my songs all to forget.

Play us a song, new lover said. Take down your harp! Take up the pen!

But no song of mirth to sing again, for all songs came from Zion.

May I lose my hand.

May my tongue cling to my mouth.

Oh, Jerusalem, leveled to the ground.

All this garlic sprouting yellow should have died, but it thrives.

Lay my head on some new pillow; I don’t cry.

On the daybed I sat and wept when I remembered Zion.

Was Zion my mirror? What did his hands look like? What is a poplar tree?

You feel so tired, my comfort said. And all things wild must go to bed.

The paint gone dry, the yeast all dead. I hang my harp for Zion.

Did I lose my hand?

Does my tongue cling to my mouth?

Oh, Jerusalem, would you know me now?

All these houseplants growing flowers — are they bad?

And these dogs who’ve lost their mothers, still they’re glad — are they bad?

Is Zion safe? He said he’d drown

In Jerusalem, my wild town.

Draw the shade; it’s far from here.

It’s all okay; it disappeared.