O' Lords, what is freedom? said I to the Heavens Above.
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

Freedom is the air you breathe
But unmeasured.
Like a mother's nurturing love
That needs no ledger.

Freedom is the words you speak
But unrestrained.
Like birds spilling
From an open cage.

It is the thoughts they warned
Must never be thought.
The paths they cautioned
Must never be walked.

It is the mirror that shows you, unfiltered.
The self stepping forward to greet the self.
It is what you stitched together
From all they told you to burn.

It is ugly.
It is heavy.
It is holy.
It is in the moment you stop asking
If you are allowed.

And if you have ever held it,
It was not in your hands,
But in the way your heart shed its pain
And beat again
Because it remembers
It only belongs to you
And only you.