A horde within us,
When we hoard,
It's time to go back,
To the drawing board.
A board that's clean,
Wiped off all its past sheen,
Ready for a new tale, new art,
A new science or a breakthrough machine.
Like a snake that sheds its old skin,
Like a new web, a spider starts to spin.
Epiphanic, it is, to gather,
What got you so far,
Might not take you further.
Balloons from before, one must dispel,
Free thy hands, write a new Gospel.
For Achievement of more,
Those who always yearn,
Know it's a must,
To Learn to Unlearn.
