My hands graze triticale wheat as I stagger across the field,
Worms they call it home; and no merits yet left to yield.
Leaden bosom of Winter, compassion before these eyes:
Disposition renounced of spirit, and an ego devoid of pride.
Nimbus vast remains only succor found,
No will left to stumble, a bolster lay on the ground.
Dirt the only shelter, the crop a single friend -
Left here now to witness together: the beginning, of yearning\'s end.
Weary, these orbs shut, never anew to absorb the light.
For the dreams impulse pursued; I alone now pay the price.
Even if to covet so:
To belong to you, and to you, I;
The chance is no longer possible, dear -
For the deceased won\'t bear the right.