Come, do the things that fortify your legs.

Come, listen to the rock songs of your youth.

With age comes suffering, and dread; and truth

does not delay, no matter how one begs.

Come, don’t explain how recently it was

your land corrupted, and its towers fell.

Each generation passes through its hell

brought on by unforeseen, though hoary, cause.

Come, shush your body; do not let it speak.

A war-time traitor’s never given place.

Childhood takes up an endless, rounded space;

just for these narrow footsteps are we weak.

This threshold’s fiery, dim, and rotting grey;

We step across it, home, to endless day.