I Wish to Hear Your Song


Sweet little lark, feathers made of starlight,
visited me carrying sunset on his shoulders.
What is the weight of the clouds you carry,
that plunge between your shoulder blades?
I see Orion whispering secrets, tales
of the cosmos ruffling as you preen.
But you remain silent as the galaxies,
as beautiful as the water-color streaks trailing you.
Do you not sing because the sky is your cage,
captive, in pace with the hull you brace against?

Sweet little lark, feathers made of starlight,
visit me again,
carrying sunset on your shoulders,
and stay with me until your captor fades,
releasing the stars from your wings
and spilling the sunset like tears.

Sing.

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