What good is a day, with no hasty breeze?
My collar, your puppet, the winding kite,
My bread, your balloon, a blight on my bight.
This life would cease (fire) if the wind did freeze.

That dawn I turned down a different road,
Waiting for my thoughts become my own.
Small fish swim upstream, but then to be sold. 
Who knew her children and fate would be sewn.

Old habits never die, lest future maul.
Time and tide make us mercenaries all.