Work Text:
When I lay in the yard out back, the cold welcomes me.
Yes, it will prick and sting
Even here, and now, but who am I to flee?
The snow doesn’t judge me, as I am no king.
I lay in my bed, made from many evenings sorrow
And my tears are gone, as they are rendered still
And my mind too, nothing could wake it, not even Apollo.
Who am I, to deserve something so tranquil.