Freedom is the sound of wind
piping on open heath,
the sea-sounds of storm
breaking in trees,
the lark on golden spires of air
piercing the glassy day with trembling joy.

No howling car, no gunning drill,
no keyboard clack, no loud guitar,
no dumb hum of things being done,

Alone on the heath no one to tug the ear,
finger desires that reach into the purse,
prickle the mind with thorns of thoughts
that bleed into the daily heart;
no one asks for help nor lends a hand,
no demand, demanding, hurting or hurt.

Freedom has the noise of silence
the look of emptiness
the smell of space
the touch of still air

spring water taste.


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