Weary, tiresome world,
filled with the din of machines,
humming, trudging along in drudgery.
Enslaved automatons everywhere!
Nary a dream that floats free here,
the horizon - gloomy and dead.
Yet a heart beats secretly, quietly,
under the iron mould that enslaves it - heart and soul.
A dream breaks free and
fills the soul with desire.
A wanton hope gives rise to something else,
a Spirit, strong enough to break that mould of iron,
cast off those chains of enslavement.
The dream breaks free, the spirit is abroad.
Yet it walks alone, free spirit, searching
that the temple of its soul may be found.
‘Tis a hard quest, and it feels the chill,
shivers in the rain, 'n cowers in the dark night.
Yet it holds onto that dream, free spirit,
searching its heart and soul,
hoping, believing that the night will pass,
and a new day will come.
It toils, and toils,
beating through the brush,
forging ahead all the while,
creating its own path.
It toils, that its temple may be found.
At once it breaks through the jungle,
into a rocky clearing.
An imposing shadow lies ahead,
a stone monument perhaps.
It looks promising.
But on a stony-path,
around the bend,
it runs into,
Saddened at first, it reaffirms its belief,
and toils harder still. Till at last,
it bursts into, another opening.
A meadow, with a lake in sight,
tranquil, yet promising.
A pebbled path rises at one end,
and over boulder and hill,
it is revealed... the temple of its soul.
Free spirit finds its home.
Yet, in its moment of triumph,
it feels not glee, nor gloat,
but a strange calm and peace.
For it knows now, the taste of
lonesome sorrow, and tempers it,
with the sweetness of joy.
Just reward for its toil.
Toil that gives birth to devotion.
The spirit stands firm and free,
a new day has begun!