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.