**The Bird**
Should I say wings broken by fate
Or by decisions and mistakes?
The bird gazes at the vast blue sky,
its heart aches when it sees others in the sky.
I can\'t quite discern.
Is it rage that I see,
Rage at fate or at oneself
For those broken wings?
Rage sharp as the knife
which is cutting the flesh from inside.
Or is it sorrow that I see,
In not being able to fly,
sorrow which can\'t be expressed from eyes?
Is it regret that I glimpse in its eyes,
For not speaking with the clouds?
Though it was meant to soar high in the sky,
its wings could never feel that blue sky.
Is it the bird cries that I hear?
Cries so loud yet none is heard,
Is it denial that I hear in its heart?
With its every soul it cries,
Flapping its wings with denial,
Hurting itself while trying to fly.
I hear it asking, was I really meant to fly?
At last, I see acceptance from its soul.
**The Speaker**
But what I saw was quite different:
The bird never had wings suitable for flight,
For it had feet that could swim.
Swim in that vast blue ocean.