In the promising that comes with it,
I can offer you all:
The end of my working life;
All the moments I spend browsing thoughts of you;
The little flashing numbers in bankers' accounts;
The leaving of home;
Traveling far away from parents;
One's country forgotten.
But, in the giving of this,
That's only the price of entry...
The cover charge of love,
Each taste then costs extra,
Lushly and exorbitantly priced.
Turning out the pockets of my life,
Giving up every dream and possession.
I feel like I am piling them on some altar,
Pouring them onto a silver collection plate.
The things I give up for you,
They lay around stupidly,
Like useless furniture after a flood,
And the sky still cloudy...
In the giving of these things,
I know I must ask nothing of you.
But love did not make me perfect,
Only more selfish,
So I hunger for my reward.