Must I pretend to be a fool for you;
Blinded to such violent truths in your eyes?
O’ shall I set free thee, starving accused,
To wander down alleys, ensconced by time?
Should we gasp for the air, so sweet, so pure.
Should we swallow our doubts, so few, so rare.
Should we not be awake, to see the cure?
Should we not be free on this day so fair?
The trees are yet to bloom, but yet too soon,
Will the birds sing their prayers of warmth and play.
My soul is yet to wake, beneath this moon,
As clouds belittle thee, my sun, my day.
Promise not to burn my frail eyes, my dear.
Our vows shall not be writ in ink or fear.