/lit/ - Literature

Afterward, Job opened his mouth and cursed his day.
And Job spoke up and he said:
Annul the day that I was born
and the night that said, “A man is conceived.”
That day, let it be darkness.
Let God above not seek it out,
nor brightness shine upon it.
Let darkness, death’s shadow, foul it,
let a cloud-mass rest upon it,
let day-gloom dismay it.
That night, let murk overtake it.
Let it not join in the days of the year,
let it not enter the number of months.
Oh, let that night be barren,
let it have no song of joy.
Let the day-cursers hex it,
those ready to rouse Leviathan.
Let its twilight stars go dark.
Let it hope for day in vain,
and let it not see the eyelids of dawn.
For it did not shut the belly’s doors
to hide wretchedness from my eyes.
Why did I not die from the womb,
from the belly come out, breathe my last?
Why did knees welcome me,
and why breasts, that I should suck?
For now I would lie and be still,
would sleep and know repose
with kings and the councillors of earth,
who build ruins for themselves,
or with princes, possessors of gold,
who fill their houses with silver.
Or like a buried stillborn I’d be,
like babes who never saw light.
There the wicked cease their troubling,
and there the weary repose.
All together the prisoners are tranquil,
they hear not the taskmaster’s voice.
The small and the great are there,
and the slave is free of his master.
Why give light to the wretched
and life to the deeply embittered,
who wait for death in vain,
dig for it more than for treasure,
who rejoice at the tomb,
are glad when they find the grave?
—To a man whose way is hidden,
and God has hedged him about.
For before my bread my moaning comes,
and my roar pours out like water.
For I feared a thing—it befell me,
what I dreaded came upon me.
I was not quiet, I was not still,
I had no repose, and trouble came.