I have heard you also love the scoundrel
not just the saintly virgin in her tower
we too, your sons, who live under the spell
of thin ice, and who have felt the power
of soaring spirit and the rush of flight
the price of flying is to take the blame
for sorrows, broken spirits, dark of night
and we have called ourselves by many names
these uniforms and names are not by birth
these judgments are illusions we hold dear
we jailed ourselves for what we thought we were
and chose the masks and manacles of fear
My patient friend, smile and watch me try
To see if I remember how to fly