Though they locked me up inside my house,
they never could find the key to my mind.
When they would not let me roam my garden,
they could not close my imagination.
Inside my mind there were flowers blooming
and the season's ritual comings - goings.
Alone: the strength of a Paduak tree -
gold leaves in the dark; durability.
My mind bloomed pure like a lotus flower,
every year, every week, hour of capture.
"How does it feel not to be free?" Poetry answers:
No, this is not me. This is somebody else who suffers.
I was as free as the babbler, the nightjar,
balanced on the sacred Bo-tree, higher.
What I would say: remember this of me:
You may lock me up, throw away the key.
I will float above the muddy water.
Forget me: my passion is my liberty.