Stillness is turning me invalid.
On distant shores, I am a golden queen,
Seldom in seeking good fortune,
But am good fortune itself,
One thousand miles from where I stand,
My heart’s spoils from war,
A compass I clasp to my chest.
I am vacant in cold city,
Tepid, with slow movement,
Cursed through linear time.
Soar, my little soul,
A wanderer: feet bound freely
in untouched soil,
I cannot be born and still,
Truth is found through freedom.