Mamá, me he cansado

Fatigue, similar to forgiveness, but without relief. When strength runs out not from running away, but from standing too long under the same sun. Here, there is no supplication or repentance, but a quiet acceptance of one's own fall, as if the descent into hell is simply a holiday after endless exams before heaven.

Each line seems to whisper: the sin is not in having sinned, but in having tried to be exemplary for too long. And if you are going to burn, then burn beautifully, in a fire that is at least your own.