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In the end it was Job who broke the silence and cursed the day of his birth.
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This is what he said:
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Perish the day on which I was born and the night that told of a boy conceived.
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May that day be darkness, may God on high have no thought for it, may no light shine on it.
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May murk and shadow dark as death claim it for their own, clouds hang over it, eclipse swoop down on it.
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See! Let obscurity seize on it, from the days of the year let it be excluded, into the reckoning of the months not find its way.
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And may that night be sterile, devoid of any cries of joy!
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Let it be cursed by those who curse certain days and are ready to rouse Leviathan.
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Dark be the stars of its morning, let it wait in vain for light and never see the opening eyes of dawn.
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Since it would not shut the doors of the womb on me to hide sorrow from my eyes.
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Why was I not still-born, or why did I not perish as I left the womb?
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Why were there knees to receive me, breasts for me to suck?
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Now I should be lying in peace, wrapped in a restful slumber,
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with the kings and high viziers of earth who have built their dwellings in desolate places,
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or with princes who have quantities of gold and silver cramming their tombs;
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or, put away like an abortive child, I should not have existed, like little ones that never see the light.
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Down there, the wicked bustle no more, there the weary rest.
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Prisoners, all left in peace, hear no more the shouts of the oppressor.
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High and low are there together, and the slave is free of his master.
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Why give light to a man of grief? Why give life to those bitter of heart,
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who long for a death that never comes, and hunt for it more than for buried treasure?
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They would be glad to see the grave-mound and shout with joy if they reached the tomb.
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Why give light to one who does not see his way, whom God shuts in all alone?
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My only food is sighs, and my groans pour out like water.
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Whatever I fear comes true, whatever I dread befalls me.
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For me, there is no calm, no peace; my torments banish rest.
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