אֹ֫סֵף

For days beyond a year you will be troubled, you careless women; for the vintage will fail. The harvest won’t come.

Your plunder will be gathered as the caterpillar gathers. Men will leap on it as locusts leap.

Misery is mine! Indeed, I am like one who gathers the summer fruits, as gleanings of the vineyard: There is no cluster of grapes to eat. My soul desires to eat the early fig.