Those who survive him are buried by the plague, and their widows do not mourn for them.

My harp is used for mourning and my flute for the sound of weeping.

Have I not wept for the unfortunate? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?

“If my land cried out against me and all its furrows wept together,

But when they gazed intently from a distance but did not recognize him, they began to weep loudly. Each of them tore his robes, and they threw dust into the air over their heads.