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I slept, but my heart was awake. The voice of my beloved! he knocketh: Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, mine undefiled; For my head is filled with dew, My locks with the drops of the night.

—I have put off my tunic, how should I put it on? I have washed my feet, how should I pollute them?—

My beloved put in his hand by the hole [of the door]; And my bowels yearned for him.

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