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Hear me, Beloved
Iím tired, Old Man.
I see no purpose in anything anymore.
Every breath has become a burden.
I wander through my days, a ghost of myself
I see nothing but years of bleak drudgery
without comfort or surcease stretching
before me as the web stretches
twined in the Tree.
Iím tired and so beyond hurt that I am numb.
What gifts You have given me
turn to poison in my hands:
the vision of endless probabilities, endless threads,
the frenzied love of battle,
the constant hawk-like awareness of any
inconsistency no matter how small,
the hair-like trigger against inconstancy.
If I begged You to make the vision
stop would You do so?
Would it make any difference at all?
Would I be anything at all without those
gifts that torment my soul?
You hung for wisdom but what did You do
Every thread that connects me to feeling
is slowly withering away.
I fear what it is I shall become,
how alone I shall be.
What chance I had of learning to trust
has been hung upon that hungry Tree.
It has made of me a thing of sharp edges,
a weapon even in my own hand
with hurt its only will.
I have no more energy to scream or cry
or rage, or love, or hate or plead.
You know my weariness of heartó
the grief of shattered thread upon shattered thread.
Make it quick, my Lover of Swift Battles.
Make it sure. What ever remains of me
At the end I give to You, Beloved.
If I am Yours, then You are also mine.
And that is the only surety I can
grasp in this darkness.
Galina Krasskova (first published in ĎThe Paganís Museí)
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