Song for the Martyred Romantic

I want to run from it all
The city is beautiful
But it's beauty is fickle
And my home here is in the past,
But the pressure I feel is modern and cold
This whole place is cold
Like the steel from which we've built it
I am the silent romantic
My voice was not heard
I was the worker in the mill
I wove the fabric from which my in-laws clothes were made
Then I felt happiness only when I had money to enjoy this fickle privilege
And I died.
I chose not to speak of these things because I couldn't bear it then, but now I am bearing this load in another life.
And I cannot bear it.
I want to leave my home and find a new one in the remaining meadows.
On the rocks untouched by man
I require these stones, for they are my foundation
The Lord called me here but I cannot bear my material purpose, so I seek my spiritual one
I want to leave this all