How a bird remembers the mapped travel,
It truly is a marvel of a thing,
We journey, so lost, on the gravel,
If only we could fly under the wing.
For mere men, such an archaic dream,
That no tin creation can replicate,
To fly along in a mutual stream,
On this thought we absolutely fixate.
To feel the stretch of muscles and our plumes,
Lifting so high, feather upon feather,
And the touch of the ground never resumes,
As we mock the high heavens together.
And you sketch me, and the sky you do paint,
With every shade of the grey and the blue,
With our shadows ever so small and quaint,
The heart of liberty we do imbue.
But awake we do tour the mossy grounds,
Seeking our own natural attrition,
Memorising our dreams of flighty sounds,
The rush of wings and air our ambition.
