By this kneeling I beseech repeating with misformed body, for sons and sisters we prayed before your imitation of death. Even the daughter it’s that she will not seek you. A mother lives most in the least of the number, sickly, unlikely to succeed, safest in revolt.
They made their mistakes, all, and quickly.
The boy mishandled ashamed of me to be seen near the gates. Days for days of years I passed the hours he visits me Sundays, eat and laugh.
Morning and evening expecting effacing. I wish nothing for him, nor the girl, save him.
By day Lord meals for the gentleman who travels and his son visited wanting money. I was serving and they quarrelled. He gives bonuses and pays strict as the calendar I keep my mouth shut, Lord.
And pay homage to Thee, to strengthen in Thy great and forceful mind the recollection of these few, that Thou reduce the weight size and number of our needs. As syllables echoing on increasing silence in the hour of this visit when hands breathe earnestly there is one sense, honour Thee who knows and thinks things into being. Now and here we call Thee God and make no appeal but before Thee apply the whisper of our thoughts to infinity, Yours, to keep my family in employment and my own ones free from harm.
Nor loud, barely, as Thee, to underimport before Thee. Though this admission reduces. Thou asketh no more than the dust I am. We are. I give for all. We go.