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I rose; I went to open for my love,
        and my hands dripped myrrh,
        my fingers, liquid myrrh,
        over the handles of the lock.
I went and opened for my love,
    but my love had turned, gone away.
I nearly died when he turned away.
I looked for him but couldn’t find him.
        I called out to him, but he didn’t answer me.
They found me—the guards
        who make their rounds in the city.
They struck me, bruised me.
They took my shawl away from me,
        those guards of the city walls!

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