The City of Cloth

I feel free as a bird and I want to fly

Through balmy air and summer sky

with wings of ochre-orange sunset

feathers to heaven, I'll fly to yet

from the cages adorning my homely dwelling,

the routineley fervor in the city of cloth

Wash day in and day out, an industrial life

made of fabrics so small they're cut with glass knives

That are obsidian and obsolete

to their superior diamonds;

but regardless of the finances

the factory birds are working. 

And to them there is no chirping, is no singing

In that brutal factory hall

not a murmur, not a sound,

that makes birds what they are. 

So an escapade of secret grandeur

would be such fine fantasy

pay for it in vast daydreams

till the reckoning becomes a reality

To confound the cambric soldiers

and liberate the linen laborers

turn chiffon courts to birds' branches

Revolution from flowing challis

And the tree will be a tree once more

vivacious as like I adore

And cloth to belong to not just lords

but to every bird in the sky!