His eyes are darker than wine, and teeth that are whiter than milk.
Binding his foal to the vine, his donkey’s colt to the choice vine, he washes his garments in wine, and in the blood of grapes his robe.
Zebulun will dwell by the seashore, and be by a harbor for ships— his distant border reaches Sidon.
Who has woe? Who has sorrow? Who has fights? Who has complaining? Who has bruises for no reason? Who has red eyes?