Tzefaniah 2:4 דכִּ֚י עַזָּה֙ עֲזוּבָ֣ה תִֽהְיֶ֔ה וְאַשְׁקְל֖וֹן לִשְׁמָמָ֑ה אַשְׁדּ֗וֹד בַּצָּֽהֳרַ֙יִם֙ יְגָ֣רְשׁ֔וּהָ וְעֶקְר֖וֹן תֵּֽעָקֵֽר
In a distant land a prophet did foretell.
Wisdom scribed and shared in every tongue.
A multitude of tribes recount the tales,
And the revelatory doom of destiny’s song.
The king of the north on a sickly pale horse,
With sword-carrying riders, red their steeds.
Across the parched, empty riverbed he crusades,
To claim his land where heathens reside.
Like a thief in the night, the siren booms,
Mother of fiery flames hurled upon the land.
Bombs and bullets mixed with blood,
In darkness’s realm the sun turns black.
The green grass scorched, the trees burned up,
In pulverized stone the poor souls rest.
The king purifies himself, makes himself white,
Here, there is no light.
In the grip of vengeance, the world does quiver,
The sea and land absorb the countless dead.
The second death, the prophet said we need not fear,
Skirting on the wind from ancient times.