shrunken in the wing,
the feathers clutched so tightly
grasping the tangled skin
with elegant fingers
held dangling, resting upon the surface
in the iron-clad attempt at a grip of death.
how strongly held the broken skin
to the shrunken marrow, bleached
from sunlight and rain.
the sparrow's song is never heard anymore.
it was replaced by a dirge
concentration on the rustling of whisper-thin feathers
in a calm wind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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A melancholy & thought provoking write Beverly! Captivating throughout, a great read thank you! ! Best wishes, *10* ! ! Friend Thad