Where have you hidden,
Beloved, and left me moaning?
you fled like the stag
after wounding me;
I went out calling you, but you were gone.
Shepherds, you who go up
through the sheepfolds to the hill,
if by chance you see him I love most,
tell him I am sick,
I suffer, and I die.
Seeking my Love
I will head for the mountains and for watersides,
I will not gather flowers,
nor fear wild beasts;
I will go beyond strong men and frontiers.
Saint John of the Cross
‘The Spiritual Canticle’
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