The Cord Is In His Hands

fly little kite-fly fly higher than ancient cedars reach the pinnacle of babel but let not the thought of the cord slip your intelligence reach mountain peaks where from there even a Goliath is a David and fantasies are reality like the soil underneath but remember you are but a shape-a kite spread your vertex and rest in the shoulders of the gentle blowing winds: float from heights of eagles where the aroma of the blue sky in no more a mystery but do not forget-you are but a kite held by a cord in his hand indulge the satisfying feeling of resting in the bosom of the stars high above where your many great colors match that of a rainbow and no one can tell what is which. But when you are there remember your limit lies in the palm of the cord in his hands human life is but a kite-nothing more than just a flying paper how far how further how wild you go is the secretes of the cord in his hand