The rancor of morning has yet again roused me too early from my would-be grave, and if you were in possession of any, I would lay the plight of this ongoing weariness solely at your most hallowed feet.
For what reason does the sun shine and do birds chirp thus in light breezes? Have you no shame?
The drumbeat of boys in fields, the screech of feet in fine sand, why. Why do you let them touch you so? I feel each step now like a teeth on bone, ricocheting down the granite wedges through my shoulderblades. How dare they! Wretched little beasts with their joys and sorrows... What good is such a fragment of life? A century or so. Each is barely a bubble in a single curling wave in rushing tides of a swirling sea, and not one can fathom it, nor even reach the surface of the bubble, from inner film to out, before it bursts. What good then? Pah.
And so I shall crack you open again. You would have them tread lighter if you loved them so, but it never has been. Born again from your loins to air and sea to leave them breathless, choke their supple skins, burn their livers, return all to ash and ice and peace. Stone is quiet and still. Flame leave no room for wings. Your life is reckless in its restlessness and indecision, Mother, and I'll have none of it.