A bird I could be
I wished once
To soar like a bird.
A bird which
knew of everything.
For the rest of the wings
learned to follow
only these feathers
all their lives.
Yet why is it?
That this bird alone
thinking on a branch
watched with this hole
forming inside,
As the feathers which
imitated a house of cards
sat on weak grounds,
only to leave their feathers
as they gradually touched
the mouth of a hound.
Oh, this bird thought
maybe this hole
so tall,
means I have a voice,
after all.
This poem is about:
Our world