For days beyond a year you will be troubled, you careless women; for the vintage will fail.
The harvest won’t come.
Tremble, you women who are at ease!
Be troubled, you careless ones!
Strip yourselves, make yourselves naked, and put sackcloth on your waist.
Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vine.
Thorns and briers will come up on my people’s land; yes, on all the houses of joy in the joyous city.
For the palace will be forsaken.
The populous city will be deserted.
The hill and the watchtower will be for dens forever, a delight for wild donkeys, a pasture of flocks,