Give up your pursuit of me, or forfeit all tomorrows, The past so drains the soul that from the future now it borrows, And the will that keeps you tethered to this bitter yesterday, Forms a rope that binds and chokes Any hope of your escape. I beseech you, living soul, To turn now from my face, To fly now from my Aberdeen and leave this wretched place. It is nothing but the graveyard of my ceased and rusted years, A useless field made barren, By the salt of useless tears.