The ideals that I create and destroy
Create and destroy me so often
That like a handful pieces of a jigsaw
My some instincts are never recovered,
And in search of some other worldly apricity,
I become the creator of my own autumns.
More than imprisoning me, what else they do?
And smell the very steps I take,
Stronger before the common masses
And feeble before a few good souls.
What are these ideals of mine?
That show me such unjust contrasts.