“Through the lands and conversations with local clans
My fine lute has been played by my beaten and wearied hands
With a kind ballad towards sovereignty, or a song to inspire
I travelled the regions with only one desire
And henceforth it is due, that I bring this tale to you
And  take what you will, for it is my own guilt I spill

In the East I was when this adventure first started
And the mystics there were kind and wholehearted
With no desires, but only incantation
I spoke to them in bardic lamentation
Of why, or how they can live in the now
And yet have the drive to tend to their sow
But they would not listen, and they would not shout
They just sat meditatively, let the subconscious sort it out

Being a bard, I could not keep to myself
So I headed West towards the commonwealth
But on the way, I undoubtedly fell prey
To the Babylonians, and their hymn-like hearsay
I was taken aback, for the song is my profession
But eventually found out ethics is not my possession
And found myself speaking in bitter discretion:

Free speech is what I try to obtain
So I packed my things, and left with disdain
Free will is the standard to mindfully achieve
And that is why I took my hasty reprieve

For freedom alone is like a ghost
Its ethereal appendages my eerie host
And I find that it is lost at force of choice
Making one ponder their ‘free’ voice
Because the thought that follows is directed by someone else
And freedom of thought is merely squelched
Just like any occurrence of thought you may encounter
It is preordained through subliminal messages within your culture.”

His hands bloodied by the twanging of his lute
The instrument fell, and shattered at the root
His eyes rolled back, expression sullied
His dying breath, eventually curried
For when his lute had hit the ground
The miraculous note was heard all around
Harmonized with his final breadth
And finally letting go of his material embodiment