Ahmed Maiwada


Come


Come, wave your wings over my fire;
Wave them low, for you are cold.

Not one feather withhold;
Wage wing wars; build my red spire.

I hear those feathers whisper '...expire.'
What water does that caution hold:

Till you scale this ice-cube world,
Tomorrow's flight do not aspire.

Submitted: Sunday, November 24, 2013
Edited: Monday, November 25, 2013
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