Even if his children increase, they are destined for the sword; his descendants will never have enough food.
Those who survive him will be buried by the plague, yet their widows will not weep [for them].
Though he piles up silver like dust and heaps up a wardrobe like clay--
he may heap [it] up, but the righteous will wear [it], and the innocent will divide up his silver.
The house he built is like a moth's [cocoon] or a booth set up by a watchman.
He lies down wealthy, but will do so no more; when he opens his eyes, it is gone.
Terrors overtake him like a flood; a storm wind sweeps him away at night.
An east wind picks him up, and he is gone; it carries him away from his place.
It blasts at him without mercy, while he flees desperately from its grasp.
It claps its hands at him and scorns him from its place.