I don't want anything scripted for me,
No milky clouds of cattails blown away,
No pink rash flaring up without my say,
No mourning songs from jars of mystery.

I won't grow forests dark with history,
Or lakes where broken hopes go down to die;
Let others sip the dreams that sweetly lie —
The ones who still believe in what they see.

If fate decides I have to take the knife,
I'll gather carobs and those dancers caught
In deadly visions spinning out of right;

I'll banish falling phantoms from this life,
Then join their quiet dance, with nothing sought,
And say goodbye — candid, and out of sight.