They choose paths
who think there are paths to choose,
They make banners and float
our next republic.
They scour the garbage
of folklore
for the piece of silver
hidden by the wily tortoise.
They seek life
who cower at growths of lianas and creepers,
They run from the tangled stems
in search of stripped wisdom.
Pathfinders, all
they do not dare to know,
the thrill of building roads anew
too soft, too spiritless to stand
the course of sweat
down the smalls of their backs.
Let them choose paths
who think there are paths to choose.
We, we must grow new eyes
to see the asphalt in the chaste forest.
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