The Right to Ask

I wonder whether the knife asks permission from the skin before making it bleeding.
I wonder whether the wind asks permission from the leaf before separating it from the tree.
Does the skin really have no choice, or given a room for pleading?
Does the leaf really have no choice, or is it just a price to pay to be free?

For the stars to stay with the moon, is that too much to ask?
For you to stay with me, do I have the right to ask?

Do the wind ask the leaf before holding its hand to fly away together?
Just say that I have the right, then I’ll boldy take your hand in mine, ever after.



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