Where’s the origin of our thoughts?
Not in the palace for the right,
But in the shanty where the “gods”
Produce for us the ancient blight.
The “plants” are ready to accept,
And one of them, alas, is me.
Are shackles locked, the pace is kept,
Few souls yearn to get the key.
Few, notwithstanding some avow,
The smallest part, you would agree,
The true and perfect way to bow
And dream of Him, whom they call “Thee”.
They dream and study like the one,
Who in the desert, thirsty thing,
Thinks H2O can fill the tun
With real water like the King.