Honey lamb, with your belly full and your heart out in that open air.
Love like a lover should, dream of me, and write often enough.
Or pretend I haven’t been gone very long, and I’ll pray that heaven will stay its almighty hand.
For I don’t know when I’ll be home; I’m a sling, I’m a stone in David’s hand.
Will I be saved, will I be thrown at the brow of the world’s Goliath man?
Will you be bathing on the roof, will I come to you on furlough?
Or be sent to the gate, to fight or to wait for a killing hand?
So Honeylamb, don’t wait up for me. For I may already be asleep in the end.
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