A tattered lamp shade projects light into the ageing night.
An airplane roars in the sky—way above where my head could ever reach.
It passes. The feeling fades.
I am alone with the muffled shouts from outside.
If I were to tell you that any cathedral outlives the wildest of Western spires,
You would laugh and say ‘stick to writing of gentle folk’.
With new light comes new eyes.
The room I inhabit is empty and the bird cage door is ajar—
Red velvet lies careless on the floor.
Where have you flown, little bird?
You are far from the babbling brook, singing on unheard.
You are far from ancient wood that knows the step of mortal man.
You are far from your Northern soil, that warmed you as a child in winter.
The final drops from the water dispenser, when you wonder—
Will you ever know home?
Repetition: You see now the cage is too big for you.
Difference: You will regret the benefit.