“Cine a dat pe Iacov prada jafului, si pe Israel, in mainile jefuitorilor? Oare nu Domnul?”
Plangerea de mai jos a fost compusa de Michael ben Shabbetai Cohen Balbo (1420 – c. 1484), un rabbi cretan, cu radacini in Kabbalah (tatal sau a fost kabbalist & stuff) cu ocazia caderii Orasului (1453). Chestia asta arunca o lumina foarte interesanta asupra chestiunilor (multe dintre ele, nu vi le spunem).
Behold the noise of the bruit is come,
A great commotion out of the North Country,
Between Migdol and the sea,
A great captivity;
The daughter of my people of my ban.
They have destroyed my vineyard
And the multitude of my people.
The day star, son of morning,
Has fallen from heaven
Like a thing of no light,
The quiver rattles against it,
For He dissolves the bond of kings.
They made long their furrows,
The glittering spear and shield
While those brought up in scarlet
Are now at their wits end,
Their souls slung out like the pouch of a sling.
And Bela died.
In the desolate valleys
They are embracing dunghills,
As the earth herself laments.
There shall be a consumption in the midst of the land,
For the earth is utterly broken down.
There went a proclamation throughout the host:
“Woe unto us! For the day goeth away.”
And the voice said: “Cry!”
And he said: “What shall I cry? All flesh is grass
As the gleaning grapes when the vintage is done.”
The heavens above are black.
He has drunk at the hand of the Lord
A cup of trembling,
And the stars of heaven and night’s constellations
Shall not give their light,
Their visage is blacker than coal.
The sun shall be darkened
And the moon as black
As the tents of Kedar,
With neither from nor comeliness.
Behold their valiant ones cry without!
Behold you fast for strife and debate!
The ambassadors of peace shall weep bitterly,
They shall set up a great sign beside him.
Therefore I said – “Look away from me
For I shall weep bitterly,
Labor not to comfort me,
For with the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt.
I am black.”
Astonishment has taken hold of me
And trembling there
Like the pangs of a woman that travails,
And my knees strike one against the other,
Therefore are my loins filled with pain.
He has trodden under foot my mighty men
In the midst of me,
For it is a day of trouble and of treading down and of perplexity.
Who has given Israel up to the robbers,
Whose height was like the height of cedars,
A great eagle, with great wings, long-winged,
Full of feathers of many colours.
Riphat and Togannah,
Those that dwell on high, the lofty city,
the host and the stars, now cast down to the ground,
Unto those that peep and mutter.
Woe is me now, for my soul is made weary by murderers.
O gramada de articole am in draft, stau ca lacrimile in ochii lui Ieremia, asteptand sa curga.