I cannot work but linger in the field,
thus cannot eat, but walk upon the hills,
he is the facet of my trumpet pealed,
his labor drives the water from its fill.
O mortal wound, upon this silent hour;
I cannot slay me, I am overcome,
the thirst be quenched and speaking of its power
in this game where only I am won.
He works, he toils, he sweats beneath the sun,
and I will write what nature has begun,
epiphany in me dwells to be sung—
for I am lonely, misfit, barren one.
What of my woeful rights do I procure,
to stand and now demand my life mature?