Then I said,“ What sorrow is mine, my mother. Oh, that I had died at birth! I am hated everywhere I go. I am neither a lender who threatens to foreclose nor a borrower who refuses to pay— yet they all curse me.”
“ Let the day of my birth be erased, and the night I was conceived.Let that day be turned to darkness. Let it be lost even to God on high, and let no light shine on it.Let the darkness and utter gloom claim that day for its own. Let a black cloud overshadow it, and let the darkness terrify it.Let that night be blotted off the calendar, never again to be counted among the days of the year, never again to appear among the months.Let that night be childless. Let it have no joy.Let those who are experts at cursing— whose cursing could rouse Leviathan— curse that day.Let its morning stars remain dark. Let it hope for light, but in vain; may it never see the morning light.Curse that day for failing to shut my mother’s womb, for letting me be born to see all this trouble.“ Why wasn’t I born dead? Why didn’t I die as I came from the womb?Why was I laid on my mother’s lap? Why did she nurse me at her breasts?Had I died at birth, I would now be at peace. I would be asleep and at rest.I would rest with the world’s kings and prime ministers, whose great buildings now lie in ruins.I would rest with princes, rich in gold, whose palaces were filled with silver.Why wasn’t I buried like a stillborn child, like a baby who never lives to see the light?
