Who picked

Off the Lulav

Its belts

And all it has

 

Oh, my dear Etrog

Why have you killed it?

Who lopped

The edge of it?

 

My golden fruit

Its crust shriveled

My Lulav - embarrassed

Its cell wall - revealed

 

Their festival is over

Their shade is gone

They have been lowered

With no savior – not one.

 

Into jam

Has the Etrog descended

And Lulov fronds - were

Weaved and wreathed;

 

Into small garlands

And some plaits

And bands that cling

On fingers as rings