Duet

(I sing with myself)

Out of my sorrow
Ill build a stair,
And every tomorrow
Will climb to me there—

With ashes of yesterday
In its hair.

My fortune is made
Of a stab in the side,
My debts are paid
In pennies of pride—

Little red coins
In a heart I hide.

The stones that I eat
Are ripe for my needs,
My cup is complete
With the dregs of deeds—

Clear are the notes
Of my broken reeds.

I carry my pack
Of aches and stings,
Light with the lack
Of all good things—

But not on my back,
Because of my wings!