Introduction
The tiniest of all things happen amidst a life that is supposed to be full, but you stop and contemplate what would be meaningless if you ever have a meaning for your life, or is it the opposite? Everything means so much because you do realize that everything matters. Life is meant to be enjoyed but you never forget why life really matters. Or maybe it’s those crazy thoughts in the mind of one old soul ready to give up. It’s a poet, a desk, a bird with broken wings. Only a poet would make a big fuss about that.
Audio Podcast
A Broken Wing
On a Monday morning
during all the rush—
to waste another day
doing what I am supposed to do;
one more day on the crowded road,
one last puff on the pipe,
one last hug for my desk
before leaving the real world,
I decided to close the window.
There it lay on my windowsill—
devoured, hunted, wounded in the wing;
I could have skipped a day in the office
for so much less than saving that bird.
Those savage vigilantes
shoot anything that flies;
those first young wings
had just taken off
when they received the shot—
so lucky my young,
you did not fall on the ground
to replace those who hunt in the sky
with those who feed on the helpless
down on the ground;
So lucky my young,
your wounded wing is done;
you’ll fly up back in no time.
Two weeks feeding my bird inside,
onto my desk, on my forgotten papers
in my lost poems in time,
the wing got stronger
so did my love;
for a moment I wished
that bird would never fly—
I couldn’t protect him in the sky,
only in, on my oblivious desk,
the forgotten path through my papers
is his sanctuary.
He’s strong and well again;
he flies all over the room
on my shoulder as if to say thanks,
glances over
towards the window
out of which, we looked on the world,
together, we smiled, pitied, laughed and cried,
together, we saw, what life out there was all about.
I wouldn’t let you go;
back there I cannot save you again
from the hatred of men,
the intolerable missing a chance to dodge
predators gathering around;
I cannot let you go,
yet I know what you are trying to tell me,
you were born to fly
to die up there in the sky
not in the darkness of my room.
Too much pity and regret
I don’t know if you should pity me,
or if I should pity you;
the window is open—
go my bird go—
you couldn’t wait to heal to go;
my wings have long been healed,
I should be as strong
to learn from the tiniest of creatures
two weeks ago I saw on my windowsill,
today flying like the phoenix,
let me join you;
I can watch over your body,
you watch over my soul
up there in the sky,
that window will always be open.
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