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  • On the summer highway,
    late weekend afternoon,
    fields all parched and barren brown.
    Dust too dry to stir.
    Each car that passed me by,
    closed and metallic bright,
    as silent and directed,
    as a drone in flight.

    Where do dreams go when they die?
    How does a bird dare to leap
    before knowing it can fly?
    Where does the wind start?
    What stops it in the end?

    Once the royal route,
    past castles, farms and fields,
    winding to the cooler hills.
    Even kings and queens must lift their eyes,
    trade intrigue and diplomacy’s mazy halls
    for sunshine and pines’ simple dapple,
    leave the studied postures of debate and reason
    for the wilder call of wind among the cliffs.

    Where do dreams go when they die?
    How does a bird dare to leap
    before knowing it can fly?
    Where does the wind start?
    What stops it in the end?

    I saw the ass end of the cart
    Black and worn, slogans scrawled in white
    Just a second to register
    Just a second before we passed
    Thought I’d see a donkey
    Not a cyclist between the shafts.
    On his way, like all the rest?

    Where do dreams go when they die?
    How does a bird dare to leap
    before knowing it can fly?
    Where does the wind start?
    What stops it in the end?



    All locked in air-conditioned splendor, all on our pre-programmed way,
    until there's one who took a different turn,
    some lone lancer riding at a different pace.
    Hear the quantum gears shift as reality dopplers down.
    The highway enters another round-about, signs point the compass round.
    Which way now my friend, which way now?

    Where do dreams go when they die?
    How does a bird dare to leap
    before knowing it can fly?
    Where does the wind start?
    What stops it in the end?
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