A Free Bird Poem by Mystic Qalandar

A free bird
perches upon the branch
of a green and living tree,
and in a melodious tune
sings songs of freedom.

Then, suddenly,
into the embrace
of the open sky,
it gives itself—

where the wind
speaks through its wings,
and a profound stillness
descends softly
upon its soul.

Sometimes
it folds its wings
and rests in silence;
sometimes
it spreads them wide
across the boundless blue—

like a swimmer
in an ocean without shore,
it glides
through the vastness of air.

It fears neither
the fierce winds
nor the sudden gusts
that pass through
the groaning trees,

nor the faint traces of life
scattered across
the sun-scorched grass.

For the bird,
the sky is not merely sky—

it is home,
ancient and forgotten,
yet forever known.

And when the day declines,
it turns fearlessly
toward the earth,
toward its quiet nest—

the same nest
where freedom
meets serenity,
where, after flight,
the soul finds rest.

It settles there
and falls silent.

Night
draws its soft cloak
over its wings.

Then morning comes.

The blue sky
calls once more.

The bird spreads its wings—

and flies again
into the open vastness,

waiting for no permission,
bowing to no fear.

For it knows:

flight
is not merely desire—

it is nature.

And to open its wings
beneath the boundless sky,

to enter the freedom
for which it was born—

that is its
natural right.

---

But the captive bird—

once accustomed
to the vastness of the sky—

now sits
within the darkness
of a narrow cage.

Its wings are clipped.
Its body is weary.
Its heart trembles
behind rusted bars.

Where can it find peace?

It closes its eyes
and dreams
of the sky.

It dreams of wings
unfurling into light,
of wind beneath its breast,
of distance without walls.

Its song still rises—

but it is not wholly its own.

It is a melody
shaped for another's pleasure,

and beneath its sweetness
a lament trembles:

the song
of a lost home.

Its longing
dissolves into the darkness
of the cage,

yet its eyes
remain turned
toward the open sky.

The sunlight beyond the bars
falls harshly upon them.

It squints—

not because the light is cruel,
but because captivity
has taught its eyes
to forget the light.

Its wings,
weakened by solitude,
remember less and less
of their former strength.

Its heart
has learned the language
of fear.

Still—

when it closes its eyes,
something within it
refuses captivity.

In the darkness
of its dream,

its wings grow back.

It rises
beyond the rusted bars,
into the blue immensity.

The wind
strikes its breast.

The trees
groan beneath its passage.

And the bird
flies on—

fearless once more,

calling the vast sky
home.

For freedom
does not die
within the captive.

It waits—

quietly,

deep within the eyes—

like a remembered sky,

like a forgotten birthright,

like wings
that have never truly
ceased to exist.

—MyKoul