Standing high atop a canyon
wall, a rising, thermal current
warmed my weathered face with gentle,
smoothest, invisible fingers.
Overhead a lone eagle glides
effortlessly, circling, dipping
downward, ostensibly playing.
His iterate screeching echoes
loudly through the narrow chasm.
Genuine freedom on the wing
but unaware how free he is;
and I who deems to be as free
knows that it’s only an ideal
one that can never be achieved.
Comments about this poem (Freedom by Albert Ahearn )
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