look, look from up on high
a fish in a bowl

swim round, around, around, around,
a round
where it starts, ends, and starts again
tracing out its destiny, its bounds, by its rounds
roundabout in a bowl, runabout never told
where to stop, how to stop?
a fish in a world of glass,
built by a man but traced by a fish

look, look, up on high
a kite in the sky

swooping and swerving like
a pale paper copy of a hawk
exploring for children skies they can only dream of,
straining at a string, yet
its taut wrath the only thing keeping it aloft
freedom from freedom
alive, but barely

but the fish would drown in air
and the kite would fall through air
before dying on the ground
if there were no line

but sometimes i wonder as i look at
the fish
look at me
i wonder

does the kite trace fate's path
or does fate trace the kite's path?
shall i look inwards to find a fish
or shall the fish look outwards to find a man?