All of your life, my friend,
you have longed to be free,
never knowing what freedom meant,
convinced you were in chains.

Perhaps it started as a song
	which came to you
		in your quiet time—
only,
    the melody haunts you,
	returns to you,
and there is nothing
		which will keep it at bay.

Perhaps it started as a tear
	which came to you
			as you considered
how unhappy you felt
      having all you thought you wanted.

Perhaps it started as a reverie—
   of summer as a child,
    of happier times,
		of immaturity,
	your first kiss,
			the feel of magic,
thinking: oh, so this is what itıs about.

All of your life, my friend—
	and there are no conclusions,
only,
	changes in direction.