Each verse is sweeter than the previous. Accompanied by the weeping strings of the Dirty Three, it’s heartbreakingly, anachronistically beautiful.

Upon my bed at night
I sought him whom my sould loves;
I sought him, but found him not;
I called him, but he gave no
answer.
“I will rise now and go about
the city,
in the streets and in the squares;
I will seek him whom my soul loves.”
I sought him, but found him not.
The sentinels found me,
as they went about in the city.
“Have you seen him whom my soul
loves?”

Your lips are like a crimson thread,
and your mouth is lovely.
Your cheeks are like halves of a
pomegranate
behind your veil.
Your neck is like the tower of David,
built in courses;
on it hang a thousand bucklers,
all of them shields of warriors.
Your two breasts are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
that fed among the lilies.