Ah, pilgrims, moving pensively along,
thinking, perhaps, of things at home you miss,
could the land you come from be so far away
(as anyone might guess from your appearance)
that you show no signs of grief as you pass through
the middle of the desolated city,
like people who seem not to understand
the grievous weight of woe it has to bear?
If you would stop to listen to me speak,
I know, from what my sighing heart tells me,
you would be weeping when you leave this place:
lost is the city's source of blessedness,
and I know words that could be said of her
with power to humble any man to tears.
3 years ago
