Who am I?
I am the wind cutting through trees
so gently, they call me a breeze–
so sweet, they bow to me
and I go my way,
but they stay;
eternal like the light of day–
I blow and they sway.

Who am I?
I am the voice you hear in the deep–
when the end seems to creep
to judge you stale
long before the end of your tale–
like fallen autumn leaves,
it comes too fast to sweep
to make room for new ones
To fall– I am the voice that tells you,
At this very moment, to hold on.

Who am I?
I am that boy still playing at that creek–
whining every day at those distant powers;
for him, the world’s too rude,
and he, so meek
to go on and make them all fall–
all those power-is-all mongers;
he cannot afford to be weak,
not anymore, but he’s afraid
he’d break his humane streak
and lose the last shred of his innocence.

Who am I?
I am the hand that cuts
I am the arm that builds
I am the leg that carries–
the nails broken on rocks
scratching a living off my flesh
creating hope, but never a wish–
all those shortcuts may lead astray,
and there should never come a day
when I cannot say it was I
who’s come along all the way
and earned every bit until the last moment–
that day will always be a glory–
down still on the same rocks,
up on top, or stuck, somewhere
in between, I will have tried–
I will have been trying
all my life.

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