With what have I offended thee that my springs have gone dry and my harvest infertile
How have I wounded thy heart and insulted thy crown that my crops have withered
Where have my prayers turned to vomit, sour and bitter as gal
When did my offerings displease you, they the first fruits of my labors
Why do my wells bring forth poisoned waters, black with suds of scum
My sheep have wandered, seeking greener pastures and are no more
What now can I offer you that I have nothing
I a simple poet, only words do I have to present, I know no other trade