Our skin is hot as an oven, Because of the fever of famine.
Now their appearance is blacker than soot; They go unrecognized in the streets; Their skin clings to their bones, It has become as dry as wood.
My skin grows black and falls from me; My bones burn with fever.
For I have become like a wineskin in smoke, Yet I do not forget Your statutes.
He has aged my flesh and my skin, And broken my bones.