Is there a method more vicious, more sinister
to break a man than to discard his dreams?

How might one more quickly subdue his spirit
than by deserting him in a world of unknowns?

Would his searing rage sooner bubble to the surface,
or would his sick despair first sink to the floor?

Should he mutiny for that sweet freedom,
or must he obey, for fear of old mistakes?

What logic would govern this comic design,
and who — dare he ask — would be laughing?

Would I weep with him,
or would I weep for him?