Everyone is tired.
They trudge through the bog. The stink no longer offends their noses. The wet no longer makes them weep. The time of weeping and lamenting is past. Now, they trudge. They trudge.
Everyone is tired, but no one stops. The bog goes on forever. There are tales that claim there is an end, but they do not look for it. They do not believe. All they know is walking and muck and mire. All they know is that they trudge. They trudge.
They trudge. There may be an end, some day, but it is a day long distant. They trudge. Everyone is tired.