Wings

In the dead of the night
A bird flew from its nest
Flying free above the ground
No strings attached
No cage to capture
the flutter of its wings
In the dead, of tonight

The ink, that bleeds on paper
In the dead, of tonight

It spills itself on the floor
With shapes and sizes and colors
No strings attached
It leaves a blot on the paper
A reminiscent of its journey
Even when it dries.
Like the dying bird
After it had flown its highest flight

Oh! In the dead of tonight
Look out, for the glory
Look inside, for the life.

It flies. In the dead of tonight.

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