The famine has blackened our skin as though baked in an oven.
My skin has turned dark, and my bones burn with fever.
I am shriveled like a wineskin in the smoke, but I have not forgotten to obey your decrees.
He has made my skin and flesh grow old. He has broken my bones.
But now their faces are blacker than soot. No one recognizes them in the streets. Their skin sticks to their bones; it is as dry and hard as wood.