The little feather that once flew with the bird

A hundred songs he had heard

Now sits on the ground

Forming an old leaf’s shroud

The little feather in the clayey mound.

It still carries a part of sky

It may never fly

It goes further down and sighs.

It may never find its bird

His purpose has already been served

A broken feather lying in the dirt.

It still dreams to be blown by the wind

Into the azure where the golden ball blinks

The broken feather obsessively thinks

It will always carry a part of sky

Even if it never flies

It shall always belong to the sky.

Like the shell that murmurs about the sea

The old parched leaves clinging to the tree,

The feather shall always seek the sky

Until it is released .

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