When I grow into full stature
And gain the real identity of nature
I’ll cease to hear the tiny voices
That whisper sweet nonsense to me.
All the murmuring at dark hours
That painted in my mind small towers
All the paintings on the wall
That made me think no faith is tall
All the questions I never asked
The wild rivers I never crossed
That golden rule I always took
As it was lettered in the book.
When I grow out of this saintly day
I’ll toss my silent mutterings away
I’ll regain my voice, coarse but calm
And find the path that hides my balm.