"Poor Yorick!",
His soul is saved.
Safe and sound,
In cold unbeing.
Cold unbeing,
For whom I am so hungry.
It's bitter tundra will fill me,
But my fire won't go out.
The burning won't stop,
And my ashes only gather.
There's something very wrong,
With a blistering winter.
Oh Yorick,
I envy.
Your sleep is undisturbed;
Where I am only tired.
You are bones,
And King Hamlet is a ghost.
Floating like him and stagnant as you,
I cannot rest.
My sleep is disturbed.
Like the king, I can't find peace.
But like Yorick,
I am hollowed bones.
