I hold it. Gently.
In the palms
of both hands.
Like a captured,
thoughtful dove,
it is as delicate
and remote,
as a secret.
But then I seek:
not a greater
understanding,
not a higher truth,
but temporal fame.
Some sordid proof
of immortality;
a twist of reality.
My grip grows tight,
I squeeze: it fights.
The feathered down
explodes.
Red and white
and bloody,
the shatterred,
oblivious body,
falls,
and cracks
the ground.
I plucked
a fantail from the air.
I heard the Songbird's
music suite.
I quilled a message
from it's blood.
It was a poem.
Complete.
David SmithWhite
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I wonder whether this is a comment on today's Poem of the Day, by Wm. Blake?
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
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