We are prisoners of the weave

Which filters happiness like a patterned sieve

Even the nomads amongst us are limited

Once we taste breath we’re committed

The wings may be real but the feathers are unreal

We cannot fly, as long as thoughts squeal

Hanging onto them like leeches

We are bolted to earth as museum pieces

Whether boring or magical

Life is a long sabbatical

As long as the weave has the strength to hold

We cannot have what we longingly behold

When the bird finally flies, no more a prisoner of the carpet

The heavens within sound the trumpet

That heralds the song of freedom

Sung only to the King who’s given up his kingdom