¹⁰ Jerusalem elders of daughter Zion are mute,
    dispensing no precious wisdom.
They sit on the ground distraught, clad in sackcloth;
    they hurl dust on their heads.
The young maidens of Jerusalem hang their heads
    down to the ground.

¹¹ Knowing the fate of Zion, my insides are in turmoil and pour out
    for Jerusalem, the devastation of the daughter of my people.
I can’t see because of the tears for the children in the streets—
    I can’t stop crying for infants and toddlers too weak to wail.
My people are destroyed.

¹² Little Children: Mother, grain and wine—where is it?

Like the wounded,
    collapsing in the city streets,
They pine and die
    on their mother’s breast.