You may arrange as you prefer
Ideas that start from shortcuts
You think you can retain
In your hands what is divine
But the essence is adrift
Impelled through the wind
To the wharf of time
Without anchor or traced direction
Who will ya find
You can paint with your colors
And mix with your scratches
Distil it with naive tears
The canvas that dams freedom
But the truth is adrift
Crossing the waves moved by the spirit