I was always just imprisoned, 

from every side and each of angles, 

not able to fight but to shake as if cornered

by some angry spawns. 

Imprisoned not in prison, 

but from everywhere else. 

In my thoughts and in my prayers at the maison 

to be saved from darker sense. 

Meanwhile the life went on as i kept silent, 

observation was my best, 

no matter who i've seen — the violent 

or just a polite guest.

I copied them just to escape, 

to be somebody else, or somewhere else.

I used the brilliant stories to create 

another world for me to trace.

But the cage was quite tight, 

meaning i may not rely on the stories of the men, 

which were never quite right, 

filled with lies to make an anthem. 

Which would tell me what is freedom, 

yet neither how to reach nor how to stand.

Thus i still was in the prison,

but now i knew what the release meant.