In my days,
The modest mind isn’t a mind;
It isn’t one sought for words;
It isn’t one with thoughts extolled.
In my days, the quiet mind isn’t a mind.
The humble one is invisible,
Unpraised and unsought;
In my days, the humble one is the fool.
And when words scream from reason;
When objections we invite,
we talk only for moments,
and hear our voices stutter.
In my days
we cry, we diffidents;
we seek rise from oppression;
Every same day, as our minds awake,
Rebellion sprouts one more measure.