Like the seed so wile and rootless,

I sway from one place to another.

The purpose of my existence is clear,

Yet I fear to face the rough weather.

I have to perform on the grand stage,

The effort is like the mountain I face,

That I still tend to sway rootless,

On my effort, is a big disgrace.

The self-appointed protectors of a legacy,

Seek to keep it close to their hearts protected.

They keep it from the 'cruel' winds of change,

Lest its serene purity be desecrated.

What they, however, sadly don't realise

What doesn't change will wilt and die.

The very secrecy that they bring to the legacy,

The pain of the legacy's death it will magnify.

The free birds that flew joyously together,

Both on sunny days and in rough weather.

Each one of them had something to explain,

Every lip wanted to tell a story of pain.

Yet they never understood each other,

For each was deaf to the others' wail.

To make the others listen to what he said

Was what friendship to each did entail.

The iron fist that holds me tight,

My wings clipped by its evil might.

Where freedom is but a lip service,

My creative urges simply out of sight.

I know the steely chains won't break,

But I know responsibilities I have to take.

Let the tyrants just try to hold me down,

My own little difference I'm sure I'll make.

Lonely is the mighty sun so bright.

Lonely is the moon this silent night.

The river is calm on the surface,

But faces within an unending plight.

Every day like a chore unending,

Over the soul a weariness unbending.

The sound of the ceiling fan rotating,

The only music to hear I'm getting.