Fields of weary travelers come and go
My existence from faltering widows
Bring all tortured screaming to my ears,
From the weakening of all social ties
I weave myself thorough colors I do not know My only kin console me through the years,
There was a wish when I was young
And I wonder how it went,
Heavy blows to my soul
Quell the artist onto sleep
In which We cannot wake,
I bow my head like fawn
A young priest in Lent,
