13

look here, you've drained me dry

of all the resentment and all the hurt

that i bore you the day i came.

there's only the weariness now

left to me, to cling to me

half-lost memories of a burnt out fire

of songs and war-cries and tears.

all that's left is weariness.

now if you come to me now

with your little bundle of letters

tied up with that rotting string i don't remember

with your own fears, your own songs

your own war-cries and all the fire

i've lost and you've found

all i have to say to you is this:

i am weary. let me rest now.