with our hands tied behind our backs,
a thought in our minds that say:
grooving is all about the feet, the hips.
And sometimes we dream of the sky,
while our wings get clipped by fears,
a voice pronouncing: root your dreams to the earth.
And sometimes we close our eyes
and see what our world ought to be,
wishing someone did something
about the mess we’ve created.
Sometimes at family dinners, or friendly gatherings,
our mouths condemn society about
its unhealthy ways in personality and nature.
We do not realize that we are that same hateful society we talk about,
like talking about friends behind their backs.
We say our planet is dying,
but what we don’t say it that we are dying with it.
We look into our babies’ soft sleeping faces,
hoping they’ll do better that we did.
to unclip our wings and sore to the skies,
too busy gazing into each other’s eyes.
to see the world as it is,
we build our buildings, our schools and our parks.
yet we forget our wild forests and grasslands.
We mistake our deserts for desserts.
to make everything better,
to cure my rotting disease of aboulia.
And so, I take that golden glass with pouring wine,
and wait for the stars to fall on my head.
