As a child I used to yearn to fly, and it would actually grieve me that I could not;
As if by actually gaining such power, I’d find all my arcane heart sought.
For if I could soar and touch the clouds, what difference would it make?
I’d just come back through my bedroom window, and sleep for fatigue’s sake.
Where would I go to if I could do it? Would I just fly around?
I think it would pain me more than life itself, for I’d be alone without a sound.
At first there’d be joy, freedom, grace and peace, but then there’d be the counter-opposite.
For there is no pain greater than reaching the highest heights, and having no one to share or express it.
O, how naïve and frivolous we are as children, imagining life soaring to the moon our delight makes such a fuss!
But now we lay and stare at the moon, and that void stares back at us.