The grapes in the royal garden have rusted;

the concubine, waiting, sleeps by the wall.

Veins of Palestine, heavy with sap,

in you flows the ancient sadness of Saul.

Like a five-day-old wound his mouth crusts over:

thick is the blood with its term at hand.

How long it has been since King Saul felt like drinking!

How long his eye has been probing the land.

The roses of Jericho burn on his temples,

like bellows his chest heaves, working its load,

and they drag, and they drag, their souls all sighing,

the young men of Palestine with their black blood.