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Freedom is the ink in the mighty pen,
With which we write the story of our lives.
The quality and flow of the ink is often,
Compromised for something unequal, however nice.
Some of us sacrifice it at the altar of holy trust,
At our own paranoid mind's behest,
And then are shocked by self-inflicted ruin,
And wonder endlessly as to why we did not, in life, win!
Were we to think about what we gained, in retrospect,
The trust we apparently gained minus the freedom we lost,
Is an equation that is unquestionably equal to naught.
We'd also ponder over whether trust can ever be bought,
And if better than freedom can anything ever be sought!
For freedom is, arguably, the primary source of thought.
Freedom is the Father of happiness, scarce.
Freedom is the Mentor of responsibility, for the one who dares.
Freedom is the Sponsor of the one who learns,
Freedom is the Foundation of life for the one who yearns.
Freedom is the Mother of the muse,
Freedom is a paradox that prevents its own misuse.
Trust is obliged to be nothing more than a strong thread,
That follows freedom and, in a subtle way, allows to be led.
Freedom, when we are born, is up for grabs and totally free,
Till we stupidly make it as expensive as it can ever be.
Parents charge their children an obligatory fee,
Organizations wear it beneath the mask of hierarchy,
Families trade it for their camaraderie.
So, this is a wake-up call to let freedom just be!