The birth of a baby is its freedom
From the confinement of its mother’s womb
And perhaps the limitations of its solitude
And dependence of life on its mother
To speak their tongue
Talk to their god
and live their way…
Is this freedom?
Are we free
When we dream
And hope to be
The wishes of the spirits?
Now and forever we’ll be
Free only when we believe
In life’s own essence:
An illusion of make believe
Which deceives he who believes
That beauty is a façade of lies
And freedom is not a state of mind.
Like sheep we’ll be
Silent with only tears to
Show our lynch’s cry
For a freedom’s rupture
Beyond the world known to man
Where a reality is concealed
And death is a freedom
From the world’s agony.
Is this why sheep doesn’t cry
Before slaughter?
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