The F Word …..

by

Thérèse Miller-Beudaert

Freedom is an illusion, a myth.

After a nine months incarceration,

To be released in this abyss

Required a strong constitution.

Our very first taste of freedom

Hurts so much, it made us cry.

It was a taste of things to come.

They wrapped us tight

That made us fight

Our very first fight for freedom

We had to try
We wanted to be free as air, but

Freedom is a myth, an illusion.

How can the air be free

When one pays for its pollution?

Oh be damned, you and your question!

We want freedom to be ourselves

To speak what we must

To believe what we trust

To write what we want

To worship or to rant

To demand or to grant.

Society demands that we conform

At all times, from birth to demise.

We are free to do as we please

As long as it doesn’t trouble others

Or upset what matters.

Tell me, are we free to decide.

When we know that enough’s enough,

When our body’s riddled with disease

And there’s no one who can ease

The pain we can no longer bear?

Freedom is a myth an illusion

There are many forms of prisons,

Depriving us of our freedom

Take the loveless marriage

When children hold us back,

Or the job that we loathe

Which puts clothes on their back?

No, don’t tell us we are born free.

We all have our own prison

And believe us, there is no key.

When the time comes for our last breath,

Hoping to be at peace in death,

Reduced to ashes by cremation,

Freedom won’t be an illusion.

Our ashes scattered in the wind,

Flitting here and there at leisure,

We’ll have the eternal pleasure

To be free, free, free in the end!