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Birds and Cages and Fire MAG
A master asked his songbird if it dreamt
of open sky
It said “Lord, it created me, so I pray you
let me fly”
So, he opened the nearest window
And took hold of the feathery thing
And flung into the air a bird
With a pair of branded wings
The angels are fainting and they're falling from above
The lovers are frowning, 'cause they're
running out of love
Though Autumn's leaves are colored
They're beginning to die
And the poems are still breathing
But they're beginning to die
So our bird flew past falling angels, flew past rising men
Flew past crows who laughed and said that gladness is a sin
It dropped feathers into canyons
Dropped tears into the sea
Pondering liberation
And immortality
The thinkers think in circles, and they're rolling down the hills
The writers stab their parchment with the points of sharpened quills
Our dreams are never distant
Till they reach the world's end
And we have to hitch a ride to meet them
On the sunbeams or the wind
Blessings will blossom and curses will adapt
So our feathered hero flew, and then
was trapped
Its master, sipping centuries
Watched the little body age
Saying “you foolish creature,
Was it really I who wrought your cage?”
But we never could surrender
So let's defend the helpless bird!
On our lips, may there be a confession
In our hearts, the sacred Word
May we breathe the air which bore us
And wear our only Name
And though the odds are against it,
Fight for the flame!
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This article has 36 comments.
Oh yeah, that's really too bad. Thank goodness, though, that your family let you read them.
I bet, hearing all these stories about schools who censor books they consider blasphemous, God wishes they might lighten up a bit.
Quite!
But living in the moment is living dangerously, the most dangerous way to live! Well, here I am talking about the danger in life, but there really is none, except in our fear and insecurity. So it's freedom from those that we need.
Wonderful, wonderful. I feel free about every other day, which I'm actually quite thankful for.
Fold your fingers into a fist and hold them like that as you feel the rose continue to blossom, then it is all the more wonderful when you open your palm (and your mind) and behold a mature flower.
I wonder if I could...
Already I feel the poems rosebuds of birth on my fingertips and at the edge of my mind.
Do you feel free?
You should write a poem with compliments to our dearest friend the Editor; no one could accomplish the task better than you, Stargirl.
Perhaps so.
But I've learned since the creation of this poem that the fight for more freedom is a prison in and of itself. One becomes truly free when he becomes a part of the present moment.
Of course, however, there's always a benefit for fighting for the flame as well.
You must make a necklace of your editors' choice check marks, darling raven.
I like to think that means you have touched the heart of a single person sitting at a computer, clicking through millions of whispers of the heart and mind.
Because there is so little of it in this world.
Beaurocracy, that is the question (the problem).
Perhaps you will offer me your hearts.