In the changing seasons of my mind it is the inner child that I seek to find,
it is untrue to be kind yet destiny is cosmically intertwined:
The mother holds her dying baby on the dusted floor,
screaming agony: “What is this life a lie for?!”
The father is never around he’s making end’s meet,
the weight of stones on his shoulders exemplify his defeat at master’s feet.
The boys and girls play on the streets without worry,
they don’t have the stain of life, the constant hurry.
We are not here and yet we are never there,
nothing to worry, but our own care and prayer.
The people are rushing and moving constantly,
they see constant dire tragedy as a temporary comedy.
To break free from the chains of dependence,
we have to dance the dance of transcendence:
You can dance within the hurricane, but you have to kill the eye.