Freed

"Has she been freed?" 

Cried the bluebird.

For he, was not sure.

And his wings yet to be healed

Unable to figure if he should

Sing with joy;

or saudade 

And rise, he did;

Upto the highest branch

With wings on each sides

The little bird took off.

There she was, 

A tiny glimpse - 

With her pretty feathers

shining in the moonlight

"She's Beautiful" 

The little bird thought, as he laid down

In his own pool of blood.