Why dream Of worlds unborn, When we are chained With pain To the only sphere We know? Does not the prisoner Oft grasp The iron of his cell And, raging, Shake and shake In hopes Some hidden flaw Will allow him To be free? How often We rail at reality, Knowing that, In some mysterious way, Just beyond Lies some other land More bountiful And free. Where is the flaw In our cosmic cell, The warp Through which we Might flee Our dull, delightless Lives? Where do our hopes Come to be, When hoped, They take wing Across eternity? Where are mended Broken dreams, Where fulfilled Our schemes Of love unrequited? Are there other worlds From our sight Kept hidden? We rage and rage-- But cannot Break our living cage.
6/24/77 Portland, Oregon
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