For hundreds of years one and the same question Who we really are

For hundreds of years one and the same question Who we really are A stump, a mouse's tail Or people of great faith? We dream of a quiet harbour, There happiness will grow in a garden bed, Where we'll definitely become Our own masters, We'll forget how to run from fate without looking back. But we choose the shot Straight into the back of the dream's head, Not so much out of malice, As out of the blind Short-sightedness of a low-born mind. And the dream flies apart: There's nothing all around. Breath jammed By your own stupidity, Gloom.