We and these wings of ours,
clawed by derision
flawed with division,
our white pigeons
that just got caged
before being conceived,
and never learnt to fly

We and the Lords of ours,
mounted on stones,
preached by thrones
Our divine spirits
that despise the wicked
embrace every denial,
but never mean to try

We and the tears of ours,
soaked with arrogance
diffused in fury,
Our naive emotions
that elate with fairy-tales,
and gloom with reality
Of unending trials not to cry

Oh! is flying that bad?
Oh! is trying that mad?
Oh! is crying that sad?


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