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This is my land,
here where the pain is rife.
This land of dust and sand,
where there is no vanity in life,
nor beauty in death.
Here there is pain,
here there is strife,
here there is the end,
the end of my life.
There is a sorrow,
under this sand that bends,
bends the very light of the morrow,
to show the face of this cause for sorrow.
I walk in this hell,
in the shadow of the valley of death,
where I know nothing but time does tell.
Time tells of history,
a time where this land was plush,
a time where this land was ruled by life,
by power,
and by a beautiful truth,
a truth that none may longer see.
As I look around this spar land,
I see an old friend staring at me across the sand.
The deadly nevergreen,
with his one brown vine,
already looped.
and awaiting this neck of mine.
This thing,
this gibbet,
this personified pain,
shows me that there is no more pity for me,
no more joy to see,
and no more chance to be.
This deathly tree,
hallowed by thieves,
beggars,
and crooks of the kind,
watches solemnly as I climb.
I climb its cold branches,
an odd thing among the stifling sand,
and I find there an embrace,
no not one of life,
nor Death here to claim my weary soul,
only a midden.
A rift,
or perhaps a hole.
One that shall never fill,
nor be covered.
This rift in my life,
that no passing of time may mend,
I feel that I am at my wit's end.