It hurls itself against him without pity as he flees headlong from its power.

If he flees from an iron weapon, then an arrow from a bronze bow pierces him.

“My days are swifter than a runner, they speed by without seeing happiness.

He grows up like a flower and then withers away; he flees like a shadow, and does not remain.

Arrows do not make it flee; slingstones become like chaff to it.