1 But now those who are younger than I make sport of me; those whose fathers I would not have put with the dogs of my flocks.
2 Of what use is the strength of their hands to me? all force is gone from them.
3 They are wasted for need of food, biting the dry earth; their only hope of life is in the waste land.
4 They are pulling off the salt leaves from the brushwood, and making a meal of roots.
5 They are sent out from among their townsmen, men are crying after them as thieves
6 They have to get a resting-place in the hollows of the valleys, in holes of the earth and rocks.
7 They make noises like asses among the brushwood; they get together under the thorns.
