You women who are so complacent, rise up and listen to me; you daughters who feel secure, hear what I have to say!
In little more than a year you who feel secure will tremble; the grape harvest will fail, and the harvest of fruit will not come.
Tremble, you complacent women; shudder, you daughters who feel secure! Strip off your fine clothes and wrap yourselves in rags.
Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vines
and for the land of my people, a land overgrown with thorns and briers— yes, mourn for all houses of merriment and for this city of revelry.
The fortress will be abandoned, the noisy city deserted; citadel and watchtower will become a wasteland forever, the delight of donkeys, a pasture for flocks,