Number 11

My poverty and loneliness have gone past every limit; if you mean to forgive me, my friend, the time is now. Since you spilled my blood so cruelly while I wept, just walk across my grave; that alone is payment enough for it. The king is asleep while a crowd of the wronged stands at his gate; how can a king be so heedless of those crying out for justice? Since your mercy grows greater than any apology, though I am guiltless I will offer an apology for my faults. Tell me, caravan-leader, who rides in that camel litter? Their moaning makes the caravan bell drip blood. When should I open my lips about my pain before the healer? You are the one who sends the wound, and you give the cure. Even though we stay silent, merciless heavens, cruelty should have a limit, injustice a measure. If I have become a stranger to those I knew, it is no wonder; I have tested my familiar friends too many times. How long will the healer and I stay drunk in the tavern? Give us life, you who are lost in your own drunkenness.