I'm not like you; it is
my blood dripping in soil.
My wing bones wrecked,
broken in three places.
Unlike you, I cannot see
the stars, their silver bodies
perfect in a perfect sky;
my blindess irreversible.
And when, the nothingness
spreads like wild-fire,
unable to rise or fly away,
surely, I will burn to ashes.
1 comment:
I can't figure out what this poem refers to, but I liked it enough to read it four or five times. Excellent.
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