How far must the honey bee roam
To find an elusive flower,
And return to his honeycomb?
How long must a tumbling stone
Through a lonely landscape scour,
To realize its conclusive home?
How many do their fate bemoan,
Amidst the dark and latent hours,
Staining tears upon their cheekbones?
How do those, resting on their thrones,
Convince all of their own power,
And feign to know all that which is known?
Do we have power all our own?
Our own reasons to scour?
How far ahead is our fate sewn?
Do we let ourselves be enthroned,
To be a humble wallflower?
Or do we let ourselves be flown,
Into a troublesome unknown?