The Sons of Zion, Worth Their Weight in Fine Gold

The daughter of my people has become cruel, like the ostriches in the wilderness. The children beg for food, but no one gives to them. Those who feasted on dainties perish in the streets. Those who were brought up in purple lie on ash heaps. Her princes were purer than snow, whiter than milk. Now their visage is blacker than soot. Their skin has shrivelled upon their bones. It has become as dry as wood. Happier were the victims of the sword than the victims of hungerwho pined away. They wandered blind through the streets so defiled with blood that none could touch their garments,. Away, unclean