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Each step I take, each vision I make;

Each incident I get a close shave,

Not thankful, not gratifyingI’m complaining; bewailing.

I’m forgiven for stealing others’ joy,

I am pardoned for having a finger in every pie,

I’m saved in the perilous quest of clinging to the sky;

Yet I am a restless soul, an anxious being, a perplexed creature, a woman of uncertain creed.

I cringe; for myself is timid to withstand the pain of my misdeeds;

Or for the dreams, I never strove for, indeed!

Or the aspirations which always found me plead,

And I know what the world is; not what I am made of.