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11 Tremble, you complacent women;
    shudder, you who feel secure.
Strip yourselves bare,
    with only a loincloth to cover you.
12 Beat your breasts in mourning
    for the pleasant fields and the fruitful vines,
13 for the soil of my people
    overgrown with thorns and briars,
and for all the joyful houses
    in this city of revelry.

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