My face is red and chapped,
But the heat, the rain, the snow –
They will not still this relentless complaint.
I must be heard.
And so I return to this place.
Daily, I pour out my complaint,
But no one listens;
I beat the air.
I preach to the wind.
I have trampled the life around me,
This circle of dead grass is an altar to my pride.
I will not move forward until my complaint is heard,
And so I return.
Maybe tomorrow change will come;
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have my answer;
Maybe tomorrow I won’t need to return.
Where would I go?
This circle has become my home;
My complaint my closest companion.
I am tormented by the weight of it;
I am fearful of freedom;
I am ruined.