In the frailties of sickness,
sidelong the realities pass like sleep on a dreary day
Easy enough to forget the reasons we recover
O\' my soul, where should I lay?
The young man outside in the Winter
Camped at the arena
Boastful of his independence
All his life, his most ambitious idea
Fallout, the mothers
With but a word to give
It is in her prayers
That a son or daughter may live
What other expectation
But to fall away from her fear
And into the palm of the hand
Of a reality she seems to leer
Frost gathers at his lashes
The cold permeates my sweater
I tell him \"Go home\"
He sneers and secures the fetters
of his self-righteousness.