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Wrong is not my name.

Even though I walk chained I am free.
Free to dream between the
darkening skies I dance.
I dance in the rain-free.
Raindrops on my face,
wash the wrongness of the world.
A world that labels me a criminal
because my free body crossed the imaginary
lines of separation.
A separation that apparently makes me
Wrong. Wrong to walk free in my skin,
and to speak the language of freedom.