Sparrow
A hundred-thousand miles have passed,
upon them all the years
that come along for travel's last
and solid build her fears.
To carry on along these roads:
consider that as lost.
Forgive me if, beneath this load,
I cannot tell the cost.
Lift up the cry of hallowed fools
and make the wise inane:
for all you say, that men are tools,
you shan't make me the same.
Forget! she cries
(poor wandering bird)
and leave behind these pains!
For broken wings
to reach these skies!
Come back to me again!
But falling on the concrete air,
my ears forever deaf:
The toll is life: I've paid the fare
now let this spectre rest. |
Submission Name: Sparrow
