A dusty cloud forms
Behind a wagon
In the distance where the eye can’t reach-
And they teach me at school:

This is the land of the free
The land of the rebels
Where no one is left out
For if I would ever doubt
Their freedom-

And here they stop teaching
And start mumbling in voices
Not reaching my ear
Not touching my mind at all.

I go home, walk in a slow pace
Keeping up with the inner race
Unable to beat what is beating within me:

You have seen their faces;
If all men are equal then, why-
But to cry-
To cry like a baby is unworthy of you.

And so I shut myself up,
And I shut what is left
Of the racing mind
Up in the blind horizon-

So the dust cloud can come.