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I. The Unchained Sky
Fly, O bird, fly—thy chains I've loosened today,
Beyond the walls where greed erects its spires;
Where border thorns no longer bar thy way,
And night's dark barge on dream-lit waves aspires.
The capitalist towers fade to mist,
Their height but hollow tombs of blinded pride;
Thy wings seek skies the tyrants can't resist,
Where truth and freedom peacefully abide.
I'll lay no hand upon thy fearless flight,
Nor clip the plume that dares celestial flame;
Go find the dawn that conquers endless night,
Where souls unmarked by hunger bear no shame.
Go, O Bird, seek that far immortal hue,
Where heaven's winds shall sing thy songs anew.
II. The Frost of Freedom
Fly southward where the midnight sun still burns,
Through Amazonian veins of emerald flow;
To lands where frost through crystal silence turns,
And penguins dance upon the ice below.
Thy kin await thee—azure, white, and gold,
Their eyes like stars above the polar foam;
No cage shall bind thee, none thy grace withhold,
Each wing shall carve its truth, its boundless home.
I stand, a beggar poet, bare and frail,
Whose bread and salt are paid with tears and rhyme;
Yet through thy flight I breathe beyond the pale,
And taste eternity beyond my time.
Then soar, O bird, where frozen fires gleam,
And crown my poverty with heaven's dream.
III. The Hunger Beneath the Dawn
Why linger here where famished souls decay,
Where every dawn is sold for grain and pain?
Where life itself becomes mere debt's delay,
And beauty bleeds beneath ambition's chain?
O dear Bird, lift me from this mortal soil,
Where art and bread forever stand apart;
Where poets die, yet parasites embroil
Their gold and greed within a vulture's heart.
Go sing where cave-wall visions flame and glow,
Where primal hands once traced the cosmic spark;
Let man remember what the ancients know—
That hunger kills the light, and love the dark.
Drop from thy plumes the dew of dreams unspent,
And cleanse the world of cruel discontent.
IV. The Last Benediction of Flight
Go, gentle bird, to realms I'll never tread,
To light where night is but a passing veil;
Leave me to write among the half-lost dead,
Whose ink was blood, whose verses bore their tale.
Thou art the psalm my silent soul has sung,
The flight I dreamt but never dared to take;
Through thee, my heart eternally is young,
Though life's rude sea has left me in its wake.
So fly, happy Bird, vanish in the blue—
Thy wings shall write the truth I never knew.
For every poet must his song bestow,
And let his vision through another go. |
