| To the howling wastes without — to me
|
| To my blackened kingdom of mud — to me
|
| O, I walk the red cinderland to come home finally — to me
|
| At least I shall not rise, O, above this grief
|
| How else to wonder and to surprise, O, the child in me?
|
| And you know I, I should have let you go when the going got cruel
|
| For love is the goal and hate is the rule
|
| I should have let you know that I am a slaver now
|
| To the howling wastes without — to me
|
| To my blackened kingdom of mud — to me
|
| O, I walk the red cinderland to come home finally — to me
|
| At least I shall not rise, O, above this grief
|
| How else to wonder and to surprise, O, the child in me?
|
| And you know I, I should have let you go when the going got cruel
|
| For love is the goal and hate is the rule
|
| I should have let you know that I am a slaver now
|
| And I don’t mind
|
| I’m a slaver now and I don’t mind at all
|
| I should have told you so |