I\'m lonely, Lord, this cruel spring day.
I\'ve lost the will; I\'ve lost the way.
And this ill wind that bends the trees
blows in my face a bitter breeze.
I\'m empty as an arid cloud,
left lifeless in a corpse-clad shroud.
I\'ve ceased to toil without a rest
to feather someone else\'s nest.
I\'ve left the busy world of work.
Behind my window blinds I lurk,
to watch the race I’ve left behind.
I’m morbid, so by most, maligned.
I\'m ageing like a knotted oak.
To not one soul this day I\'ve spoke.
The years slip by as I sit still
upon this unfrequented hill.