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Lift up your eyes to the barren heights
    and recall whether there is any place
    that you have not offered your body to another.
By the waysides you waited for lovers
    like an Arab in the desert.
You defiled the land
    with your harlotry and wickedness.
Therefore, the rain showers were withheld
    and the spring rains have not fallen.
Yet you have the brazen boldness of a prostitute,
    and you refuse to blush with shame.
Not so long ago you addressed me,
    “My Father, the beloved friend of my youth,

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