Roots

The wooden man, he travelled far

to seek, to find out who we are

made like the being of a man

with head and hands and even tan

 

But it’s not me he felt inside

another species be abide

Where are my roots,  where did I grow?

O dear, O dear, he’ll never know

 

Cause he is sitting too nearby

to see reflections in the sky

His great-great grandpa now a lake

can tell him not, what is at stake

 

While sitting on the truthfull well

will blind us so we cannot tell

that be and from is so ahead

even the book of life that’s read

will lead us to an unknown death

 

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