In my youthful hands I held the ladel wearily
I hated stirring, my arms became sore I grew bored
Releasing the handle I went outside to play with fire
These flames were dimmer than those under the pot
But those I couldn't admire as I stirred, so I stayed outside
After some time my world was dark, not a single ember glowing
Only an image burned itself into my mind
A black pot boiling over, screaming to be tended to
The darkness smothered my hopes and ambitions, and I learned to live without them