Asking questions already answered
in a desperate quest to clinch a dream
by the skin of a tooth.
That is how life is like,
for any one born in a cage.

You see the ends,
and know the forced limits,
but when darkness falls
and your eyes fail you,
you ask the slave-master

"How far will you let me go?"

Oscillating like a pendulum,
eternal in the timed swing:
you are set to and fro,
and that is all you know.

You can imagine,
because your mind is free,
yet you are bound,
and that is all that shall be.

Looking for the escape
is to find life's exit sign,
and hold your breath
and hope the theologians were right:
better forgiveness or oblivion,
than the cage.

That is what it feels like,
when you stand before
the forked road -
both well taken -
and ask the classical question:
"which shall I take?"

Not knowing which is better;
to be the rash fool,
or the calculating one.

In the end, a choice must be made,
and the coward will choose -
for that is what one is, who doesn't -
to watch and wait,
pretending to himself to calculate
untill the night falls once more,
and the owls hoot their dismay.

Then he shall peer into the black,
and be miserable in his heart:
He shall ask the slave-master,
"How far will you let me go?"

But he shall get no reply,
because he is that master,
and he is his own slave.

He shall be quiet till the moon sleeps,
and the owls give way to song-birds,
and the refreshing rays of sun
illuminate the metal bars
of his mental cage.

Then he shall sigh on his fate,
and look down both roads,
asking,
"which shall I take?"