A broken bird,
with breast as soft as snow,
you touched my heart
in ways that brought the sun
a-dazzle on your silver-scarlet coat,
a plumage that could hide a soul thrice-wounded,
hurt beyond repair...
but how was I to know?
And oh, your song! A melody that soared
on shining wings,
so far above the common herd
they could but hark in wonder
at this lark.
You tantalised their earth-bound audience
with fluting trills and thrills,
the unexplored
transcending of the known,
whereby your art
laid bare the human spirit.
You were wild,
impossible to hold,
with talons, I remember, quick to strike
the careless hand
that reached out to caress.
And I was lost,
untutored then in life's unjust affairs,
for patient love had power, or so I thought,
to mend the shattered fragments
of the heart.
But heavy fears
weighed down your skyward surge,
and tattered feathers flared in vain
to fight the errant gale.
You raged, you raged at fate
that promised flight,
then stole the means to fly.
Poor bird, your serenade became a dirge.
Oh, how we loved,
and hated;
loved again.
But love has no dominion over pain
inflicted young,
imprinted on the soul,
and heaven holds no place
for such as we -
the captor joins his wildling
in her cage.
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