He thought he was a free man,
And proclaimed so much to me
He shouted loud for me to listen,
Yet, offered much to see.
Born into the womb of desire,
Expectations have fathered him
His tiny babbles too were judged,
By others’ hopes and dream.
He grew into a set of belief,
And thought it was his
He loved, hated, played and jostled,
To accommodate all his people’s bliss.
His choices became his destiny,
Or was it the other way round?
He held his head high all time,
But muttered uncomfortable sound.
In his benign grace he was,
A vision- the conqueror of the fareth
Alone, he was a lost man,
Engulfed by his own wrath.
He is born free, he says,
And uphold ideals of liberty
He wished world to move as he sways,
For that is his destiny!
He is born free, he says,
Yet what dreams are his own?
Rambling in chorus with the noise
He has no ideals to mourn.
Should I, his conscience, tell him so?
And prick a hole in his glee,
As always, he would ignore me
For, to do that, he is completely free.
