We could paint with mental imagery,
We could weave a sky of stars.
And the only thing that’s stopping us
Is what we’ve been, and what we are.

We could write a symphony of silence,
We could record living prose.
But the only thing that’s stopping us
Is the spirit we have closed.

We could halt a train in its tracks,
Change a world or two sometime.
The only thing that’s stopping us
Is our refusal just to climb.

We could paint with mental imagery,
We could weave a sky of stars.
And the only thing that’s stopping us
Is what we’ve been, and what we are.