My hand aches from writing so,

Your demands have over taxed its beauty,

The creation it generates.

That flows from the tool to paper.

Though it burns to write,

I feel nothing.

For what has been done has passed.

I have nothing left to do,

The long cylindrical tablets

Doth bring calm.

T'is sweet,

For me at least.

You damned hypocrite!

Burn thyself with flames from Hell.

So that I might live freely,

So that I can enjoy what freedom is.