3. Stiff from want and hunger,those who gnaw dry ground,yesterday’s desolate waste,
4. who pluck off the leaves on a bush,the root of the broom—a shrub is their food.
5. People banish them from society,shout at them as if to a thief;
6. so they live in scary ravines,holes in the ground and rocks.
7. Among shrubs, they make sounds like donkeys;they are huddled together under a bush,
8. children of fools and the nameless,whipped out of the land.
9. And now I’m their song;I’m their cliché!
10. They detest me, keep their distance,don’t withhold spit from my face.
11. Because he loosened my bowstring and afflicted me,they throw off restraint in my presence.
12. On the right, upstarts rise and target my feet,build their siege ramps against me,
13. destroy my road, profit from my fall,with no help.
14. They advance as if through a destroyed wall;they roll along beneath the ruin.
15. Terrors crash upon me;they sweep away my honor like wind;my safety disappears like a cloud.
16. Now my life is poured out on me;days of misery have seized me.
17. At night he bores my bones;my gnawing pain won’t rest.
18. With great force he grasps my clothing;it binds me like the neck of my shirt.
19. He hurls me into mud;I’m a cliché, like dust and ashes.
20. I cry to you, and you don’t answer;I stand up, but you just look at me.