Mine is an old tale,
Tired and cold and of no interest.
You would not for such a book,
Endure my bad smell and wild look.
You know the cliché of my vast estate,
But there is no bed in the winter
And no kitchen on most days.
Clean water is difficult.
You know I’m argument against your day’s dreaming
Yet I have noticed that the good of heart are often generous in
small ways.
Others make rare gestures.
Young people taunt me.
You have heard the story of the five thousand’s few morsels.
They had little enough to eat but were replete in other ways.
In this land there is waste
And people are strangers.
It is well known what I want, it has ever been the same.
I will pray for you that you will not forget me.
You will die else in loneliness and shame,
I do not wish to inherit your ruins again.
