The little feather that once flew with the bird
A hundred songs he had heard
Now sits on the ground
Forming an old leaf’s shroud
The little feather in the clayey mound.
It still carries a part of sky
It may never fly
It goes further down and sighs.
It may never find its bird
His purpose has already been served
A broken feather lying in the dirt.
It still dreams to be blown by the wind
Into the azure where the golden ball blinks
The broken feather obsessively thinks
It will always carry a part of sky
Even if it never flies
It shall always belong to the sky.
Like the shell that murmurs about the sea
The old parched leaves clinging to the tree,
The feather shall always seek the sky
Until it is released .
2 thoughts on “The Feather”