A wrenching grip as I convulse,
My body lifts up from my bed,
My head falls back and hits the straw,
I see my mother's frowning head.
I find that I am singing too,
A frightened tone flees from my mouth,
I blink but find the prophets gone,
My voice breaks off – I tremble, cough.
My mother stares into my eyes,
I cry, "The room is full of men,"
I speak with agitated voice:
"They sing, their robes are hewn of gems."