(the act of free will)
Lest I quietly portray, the reason
for drifting past the smell of
God,
I must confess, it is freedom
within my soul, calling out the
odd.
My preferences, my purpose,
as seen through mine own
eyes,
They're not the ones you prescribed,
'tis I who was born, old and
wise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem