I only wished to be your balloon,
Side by side flying
Guided by our inner winds
And the blows the world gives us.

No more being somewhat hidden in the bushes,
Half shouting, half shut,
Waiting for a response
Long ceased.

Life only makes sense through life,
Anything beyond that steals its sense:
If I ought to live for love, or for money
I shall live less for life.

And the blows,
Those blows ahead,
Know nothing about life,
Our about nothing.
Therefore, life remains hermetic,
Sealed within the boundaries of grandiosity.

Anything less than this is unfair.