“Is not all human life a struggle? Our lives are like that of a hired hand,
like a worker who longs for the shade, like a servant waiting to be paid.
I, too, have been assigned months of futility, long and weary nights of misery.
Lying in bed, I think, ‘When will it be morning?’ But the night drags on, and I toss till dawn.
My body is covered with maggots and scabs. My skin breaks open, oozing with pus.
“My days fly faster than a weaver’s shuttle. They end without hope.