Young birds dream of faraway lands,
Yet not one misunderstands
That distance might not be the answer,
But allure from a gipsy dancer,
Poison to each who owns the fruit,
Be careful before it takes root
As when it claims your damned soul
The only thing left is burnt coal.
It’s good to know reality,
Tell it apart from fantazy,
But never let the illusion
Become a dark delusion.
shiftingeye 