We’re tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat.

We’d sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a frigid doom.
Why chase the wind when we can turn and face it?
Why measure time by the mirror in our room,
when we can follow earth, sun, stars and moon?