It is not my right to die here,
Or my right to even bleed.
But do I have the right to think that seasons cover me?

That when the ground turns white,
And the sky a paler blue,
That I will be forgotten for leaving here so soon?

Or that when the flowers bloom,
And the rivers flow with might,
That I will be the bird that truly takes its flight?

That when the sun is hot
And the valleys overgrown,
I still will be here, falling like the snow?

When the sun and leaves are setting,
And are falling to the ground,
Will I be the one who doesn’t make a sound?

To be, when the days are growing long,
The dawn and dusk so near,
Will the space between them simply disappear?

But it matters not how I, or the flowers, bloom or die,
Or how the seasons pass me by.
For I, for I!
Have not the right to cry?
To let water take the eye?

For I, for I,
Have not a right at all,
And to the heavens I will crawl,
Where my soul will be a cloud,
And in the sky I’ll float around
To look down upon the towns
That so closely hug the ground.

And I’ll be there in the end,
Like just another gust of wind.
Where the seasons will not take me,
From the ground I’ll take my leave.
For I, for I,
Have not a human right.