They appear darker than soot; they are not known in the streets. Their skin cleaves to their bones; it is withered and has become as dry as a stick.

The suckling's tongue cleaves to his palate in thirst; the young children ask bread; there is no breaking to them.

Those who feasted on delicacies
Are perishing in the streets;
Those reared in purple [as nobles]
Embrace ash heaps.

To crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth,

From on high, sent he fire, among my bones, and laid them prostrate, - He spread out a net for my feet, he made me turn back, he made me desolate, all the day, faint.