Your temples are like a slice of a pomegranate Behind your veil.
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines, And young women without number;
my dove, my perfect one, is unique: She is her mother’s only daughter;
She is the pure child
of the one who gave birth to her. The young women saw her and called her blessed, The queens and the concubines also,
and they praised her, saying,
‘Who is this who looks down like the dawn, As beautiful as the full moon, As pure as the sun, As awesome as an army with banners?’
I went down to the orchard of nut trees To see the plants of the valley, To see whether the vine had grown Or
the pomegranates had bloomed.
Before I was aware, my soul set me Over
the chariots of my noble people.'