With one hand the past pushes us forward,
with the other it pulls us back.
Our freewill is never free;
our today is coloured by yesterday.
Yet the desire to break free
is too strong to be held at bay.
At times we escape briefly into a new day;
smell the sweet scent of its free air
and make believe that we are free.
Alas, not so; the past is toying with us
before its hand pulls us back once more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem