++ Their Tale and Mine ++

It began when the wanderers of the desert,
Heard from the cold whispering wind,
A great tale distorted, of a noble prince,
Who once reigned over an ancient land.

Thus it was out of their [selfish] desire that,
It was eternalised by ink on paper,
To entertain the mind of the unlearned ones,
and be hailed the men of honor and knowledge.

Truly their pens defied them not,
For the written fascinated not just one or two,
But the whole kingdom and its neighbour,
And it became life for those who purchased it.

Ah, can they not see! They live by the tale,
Unaware that their present is just the past revisited?
And the future remains an empty canvas,
For the same colour to be repainted over.

Ah, can they not see the mirage from the oasis?
They wish to become the beloved prince alike,
But the tale they live is [truly] one of the fallen warriors,
From an enemy kingdom, disguised as the noble prince.

Woe, what then becomes of me?
I desire to paint over my life a thousand other colour,
To write my own tale with my heart as its ink,
My reason its paper and my belief its binder.

You see, I'm different from them - and perhaps, you,
Will you then brand rebel upon my forehead?
Will you severe my hands so I write not my own life?
Will you blind my vision so I find not my own path?

Do you know? I just wish to be me.
Leave me be.

Sydney, 22 Oktober 2009, 11.34