The poet's illness
"Your showers of tears, like a torrent,
have made the plains rise like mountain ranges.
Why not celebrate the grape-vine,
why not sing the praises of wine,
which could pursue your sorrows and
make them flee as Jeroboam son of Nebat fled to Egypt?"
I answered him: "Yes, the heart forgets its trouble
and rejoices in wine as does a man in riches.
But disease has consumed my flesh and
set the shreds of my body ablaze like brushwood.
[I have grown so thin] that a nose-ring
could serve as crown and a ringlet as an ankle-band.
Sickness burned my innards with a fever like fire,
till I thought my bones would melt.
Sores infested my innards and carried out
Time's orders faithfully.
Bones that are filled with suffering -
how should they not disintegrate?
I rage against the disease that has wasted away my body.
[It has made me so weak] that a myrtle
looks to me like an oak.
And I rage against the night that spreads out its tents of gloom."
Then when I asked: "How is the East robed?",
they answered: "Covered with blue and dawning light."
And at last, when the dawn lifted its flags and
raised its morning stars like banners,
my innards were soothed, for they were filled with dew,
and drops of water flowed upon me.
