Ugly is he who did not become a mockery of the good beloved

Look at the hand, look at the foot, strike the hand, stamp the foot

Every tree and crop has become a mockery of the wind

And what raises its head from the wind is a dry thorn and wood

Whatever of your parts does not turn its face, raises its head

Strike your foot on its head, lo, strike its head and foot

Since you will not escape from the breath of every fool

Become the dust of someone from whom hearts have no escape