From reed-flute 1 hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:
"From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men's, women's, eyes have wept right sore. My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain. Who's from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.