Where the mind is free And the soul is hushed by its own gentle whispers whispers of query, whispers of truth The subtleties in many Where the mind drifts through all little things in merry Simple in its orders, hopeful in its desires As it cherishes the unconventional and unabridged That’s a mind with wings Where the mind grows thoughts And the thoughts grow wings For them to fly about in the deep blue sky And then perch on the walls of an eerie well Only when they’re tired When the mind transcends all that is dry and overdone Into big mossed wells of great depth To find in it meaning Either as clear as its water, or as ugly as its moss sky And then perch on the walls of an eerie well Only when they’re tired The mind is an object of insanity A freely moulded clay piece Half fill it with faith half leave it bare For it to make its own stories To satiate its hunger of reason and purpose