The Young Birds
They are in a hurry, to join the flurry
Of the birds, that flies to the Sun.
Their claws are inching, the dreams are stitching.
To watch the world from the zenith of horizon.
In a tough race, they fly with grace-
The best their delicate feathers can manage.
The bloods in their veins, is now seen as stains
Dabbling their feathers, imperious to their courage.
Their little flight gives everyone delight.
But when as scheduled, they fall to the ground…
They all in rage, give an angry gaze.
No aid, no sympathy is found.
The birds are frivolous, their dreams are obvious.
But why expect them to fly splendidly so immature?
True; their incessant zeal is their sole feel
But why aren't they directed towards what they are looking for?
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