men younger than I,
whose fathers I would have disdained
to put with my sheep dogs.
since their vigor had gone from them?
they roameda the parched land
in desolate wastelands at night.
and their foodb was the root of the broom bush.
shouted at as if they were thieves.
among the rocks and in holes in the ground.
and huddled in the undergrowth.
they were driven out of the land.
I have become a byword among them.
they do not hesitate to spit in my face.
they throw off restraint in my presence.
they lay snares for my feet,
they build their siege ramps against me.
they succeed in destroying me.
‘No one can help him,’ they say.
amid the ruins they come rolling in.
my dignity is driven away as by the wind,
my safety vanishes like a cloud.
days of suffering grip me.
my gnawing pains never rest.
he binds me like the neck of my garment.
and I am reduced to dust and ashes.
I stand up, but you merely look at me.
with the might of your hand you attack me.
you toss me about in the storm.
to the place appointed for all the living.
when he cries for help in his distress.
Has not my soul grieved for the poor?
when I looked for light, then came darkness.
days of suffering confront me.
I stand up in the assembly and cry for help.
a companion of owls.
my body burns with fever.
and my pipe to the sound of wailing.