The more I pour out of my heart,
The easier it seems to start,
To lift into the air,
and drift like a flare.

It's loftiness never lasts long,
It's tied and pressed to points too wrong,
To go carry on,
and sing like a swan.

Like dead feather in fair weather,
I can never now tell whether,
it will come or go,
and meet friend or foe.

For is it that which flies,
or is it that which dies,
that hurts my heart,
starts its depart.