Featherless wings creak to a crooked stretch,
Then it glides in a melancholic tint through tempest.
It soar in the fray;
just as it indulge the blue sky.
Old bones cling to fading flaps,
It spins through canopies: gorged with frailty,
Whilst it descends like hail;
even then, its will still soars.
A thud! Suddenly its life burns in half.
It scrambles to rekindle the flame, and cease.
Worms in armies plucks its feathers,
that lift and soar into the blue sky.
A poem by Tonny Wandella