A poem about a disaster, waves of locusts destroying all the crops. I get the impression is an urgent warning, they are imminent. On the northern border, and have destroyed wild pastures there.
Chapter 1 runs through something like the stages of grief, from the disbelief (has anything like this ever happened?) initial shock (wake up, wake up! It’ll all be gone) realising the implications, grieving.
All done with wonderful vivid language: forget figs, the trunks of the fig trees are white because the bark is gone. New wine is being snatched from the lips of drunkards sleeping off the old, cattle and sheep wandering about aimlessly with no crops, olive oil failed, trees withered… like our joy.
And the cry of anguish and the wail to God. The people, the flocks even the panting wild animals, all run out of options but to cry to God.
Got it. I see people there in the news, it happens to friends, and I myself have felt at times I’m there, even though my objective circumstances were not as bad. The place of utter seemingly inevitable disaster, absolutely zero resources other than a voice to cry to God.