The Genesis Of Job Poem by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab

Praise is to the Lord! However, the plague becomes extended.
Praise to God! However, the pain becomes overwhelmed.
Praise is to God! Some of calamities are a kind of nobility.
Praise is to Lord! Some of catastrophic things are a type of generosity.
Didst you give this darkness?
Didst you give me this prettiness?
Does the Earth thank the dew of rain?
And got angry if the clouds do not rain again!
Long months, the wounds had serious grief.
They had torn out on my waist as sharp knife.
The pain is ceaseless even if morning shines.
Even the night cannot sweep its agony by demise.
But 'Job' if had shouted yet.
Praise is to Lord! The ordeals are just wet.
Wounds are alike of dearest lover gifts.
Usually I cuddle them as bunches to my chest.
Your gifts on my heart always are present.
Your gifts are acceptable I deny them not.
I control upon my wounds and shout to returnees!
Look! Here I am! Be jealous as you can…
These are the gifts of my dearest lover…
If the fire touches my forehead,
I envisage it as if a kiss was blunged with flame.
The sleepless has a good favour…
Since I can watch your skies until the stars go down sure.
Your sublimity then will touch my window against my head.
The night is pretty however, I hear the owl hooting.
And a sound of horn of a far away car coming…
And sighs of sick-men come from the adjacent beds.
Sure or do not sure, but it is the sound of a woman…
She relates to her baby the stories of her grandfathers…
The forests of the endless night are the clouds.
Apparently, they veiled the front attire of the sky.
They put it directly on the way of the moon…
If Job shouts, his appeal maybe is:
Praise is to you God! You control upon fate.
No longer have you written the recovery Date.