job 3

this squalor my main domain
in the rag wretchedness of poverty
and prosperity seems far delain
in the strong shack of bareness that withholds,
its dying human in mad misery;
there i find myself,an isle from diamonds,
and miles from gold;i travel in search
from rugged sandals traversing to find,
your rose blooming in deep winter of march
by fierce chill and far an ugly wind
that find me a poorly lover,and you
the only such trinkets i grace myself
than in wealth i find deep my gold mines in you,
i hope to delve and find your crude ore