The eyes of a child,
Can see many things...
Such as castles, and spaceships...
And dragons with wings.
But, he'll leave these behind,
With the toys of the child,
Filing those dreams,
Where such things are filed.
He'll be part of the tribe,
With the earth as his home,
Knowing life...sometimes love,
With no reason to roam.
Yet, when day's gone to bed,
And his body is aching,
He'll scan the dark sky,
With his heart somehow breaking.
In that night with the stars
Sown so widely "out there",
He'll yearn for the cold,
Where there's not any air.
With a smile on his face,
He'll join others in play,
Hearing dimly a voice,
Which calls him away.
Is it fortune he seeks?
Is he a fool seeking fame?
Or is it part of a man,
Which can never be tamed?
It's not found in books,
In banks or in bars,
The name of that thing,
Calling him to the stars.
Is it part of his soul,
Which cries from within,
Marked on the man,
Like original sin?
Must he go to the stars,
Just because they're "out there";
Into space, where it's cold,
And there's not any air?
Maybe, just maybe...
He remembers a dream,
Of the child he thought lost,
But not lost it seems.
A man's but a child,
Who yearns to see things,
Such as castles and spaceships...
And dragons with wings.