As a slave who pants for the shade, And as a hired man who eagerly waits for his wages, So am I allotted months of vanity, And nights of trouble are appointed me. When I lie down I say, ‘When shall I arise?’ But the night continues, And I am continually tossing until dawn. My flesh is clothed with worms and a crust of dirt, My skin hardens and runs. My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, And come to an end without hope.
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