Perish the day on which I was born,
And the night that told of a boy torn.
May God on high have a thought of it,
May it shine no light.
Why give life to those bitter of heart,
Who long for the death that comes like a dart?
If we say something to you will you bear with us?
I speak from experience, those who plough inquity
And sow disaster, reap just that.
Fair comment can be borne without resentment,
But what are your strictures aimed at?
Do you think mere words are contentment?
Do you see the thorns on which I sit?
Lying in bed I wonder, “When will it be day?”
“When will the day come, for which I pray?”
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