A poem about freedom.
|The sun that shines its eternal gleam upon me|
is merely a case to cry about.
For he, is free unlike us, the wretched of the earth.
He imposes his benevolent power on us night and day:
Making hard work arduous and giving the burns to the lazy.
And when it disappears amidst a cloud in the sky,
I think, were I a cloud to save my people from the evil sun
That blinds us and dooms us to the sordidness we are full of;
Then there are the birds: morning seagulls on the beach,
look at them peacefully walking,
effortlessly beautiful: swans - queens of the animal catwalk.
And they too are free and they too have no borders or boundaries -
'How sweet is it to be free, o petit Seagull?'
No constraints or belts or restrictions to bitter and worry us
Free to walk upon green meadows, immense valleys, submerse by the joy of being free.
But they aren't joyous or thankful either, or if they are, it's not for freedom;
One does not appreciate such a tender gift until one loses it;
One doesn't miss it until one's had it and one's lost it.
And the flowers that perfume the air with their colourful petals,
enticing us into a love spell of which we cannot release ourselves from.
Those vain models: beasts to their ever-demanding job of
attracting blood sucking bees: flying stingers burning the skin.
They do it for the sustaining of their own endless abyss,
a pit, a well full of vanity buried in the innocent
to which they were born: humble, modest, simple.
And so the free diverge and disperse,
Knowing not of that precious gift I'd like to acquire,
Of how that smile shall level when the hope dies,
the freedom flees and your world is swept away.
When that happens, if you'll allow me,
I'll snatch that freedom and be free,
I'll acquire that hope and be successful,
I'll kiss that smile and be loved
and I'll be happy.
For though 'tis neither polite nor appropriate
to from one remove his life,
I beg to God and yourself to indulge me
for putting life to use and introducing it to joy
and presenting to the world - myself.