Solitude
Solitude
A crested lark takes flight to the window,
Its façade, the simplest grace and flick of the wrist,
Upon the piano, in a pirouette of feeling,
Its symbol, the imperial freedom of flight.
It wears a rosette, bound fast in its beak,
And I rise from the single room storehouse,
The bold, arulean flame of a phoenix caged.
And it rises in the yard, the slumber shaken from its eyes,
And I run, the phoenix in an arulean flame of
a destined love
And its imperial freedom, sears my eyes, the rhythm revived,
And I am living, once again, a caged bird freed.
The bird that has lay in wait two years,
During and after a war,
Every day bound in its dungeon,
Singing futile hymns to the wind, and in turning,
Revived by the endeared face of her true love,
Revived, enflamed, once again and burning.
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