Flight and Reality

Grow strong wings and learn forgetting, find the hidden art of flight,

though a body weighs so heavy, imagination turns it light.

Like the birds that circle freely through the unresisting air,

dream with me of flight and glowing, with the gentle moonbeams there.

You must have been a child, for once I was one too,

stretched-out arms and playing airplane, the way the little children do.

Running circles in the grass and believing it the sky,

with the little wings of wax that melted if we soared too high.

We never left the ground and yet it mattered not at all,

we ran both on the grass and far above the trees so tall.

Our eyes could never fool us, for we knew quite well the truth,

we knew we flew so gracefully, with all the certainty of youth.

Time’s made us taller, heavier, and gave us eyes to see

that awful dreary monster that they call Reality.

It’s got nine eyes, six hands and feet, hard scales that reach the floor,

and a million ears all pressing at the crack of every door.

It says, “You’re old enough to know you’ll never ever fly,

at best it’s years of drudgery until the day you die.

There’s no escape for you, my child, nor has there ever been:

just call it debt, attachment, or (if you want to) sin.”

Reality’s a clever beast, but there’s ways to get around;

the chances smaller every day, but still there to be found.

So never give up hope my love, and don’t believe the lie,

remember what the children know: that all of us can fly.