Monday, November 16, 2009


She is no longer perched on the lilac.
It does not mean she’s no longer there…
The image lives in my heart and mind,
Though she’s currently perched elsewhere.

Ironically shaped like the bomber,
Whose thunder made her take flight,
Little eardrums not made for sonic blasts,
Or this world where humans fight.

I provided a minute of reprieve
Offered cold water and some seeds.
Unfortunately I’m not a time machine.
To supply the past world she needs.

Treacherous is her migration,
Through glass windows and truck radiators,
To build a nest, and carry on
In a world with no peace mediators.

Humans, like birds are animals,
Only we carry the gene for hate…
Born with both thumbs and cleverness,
All that’s needed to squander her fate.

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