And the olive trees, for the locust devoured them as well.You will not let me die.Why not? The trees and fields have been picked dry yet you keep me here for what,to sit at your side. Let me die young and empty of days.Bury my bones under the bare olive tree,let my name rest on the tip of your tounge.As the night captured our still voices.The contrast of the sky locks our eyes one last time . . .