The world is a wasteland,
and I its sole survivor,
alone, and abandoned, and
in ruins; breathing slow
in the cellar, so they won't hear.

When the sun shone, I would
walk about the earth, among my friends,
in the garden of easy delights,
and make my voice heard,
my tongue was loose, and not afraid
to speak.

Blow over me,
and let this fear pass,
wash me clean in your deepest pains,
your darkest howling of the wind; scrub me,
hard with a steel brush--

Make me shine in tomorrow's bright sun.