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.
