O, hurrying feet, pause for a moment,
Things now look alien and different.
Can you still hear the bird's chirps,
As they appease the bruised spirit?
Wings weakened, the bird cannot fly,
To frolic in the clouds, king of the sky.
Can the imprisoned souls still move,
Does the aviator still have a wound?
The feathers take a long time to grow,
The diminished flesh loses its glow.
Will the bird and spirit remain caged,
Until they are at death claw's edge?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem