Seagulls


How graceful they are, the birds that fly.
They swoop and they scar, yet to die.
Challenging the elements, in God's blessed grace.
Up they go, when the ground they face.
With their voices pure they sing on high.
Some vowing and demanding, shouting their war cry.
They value their life, in fear they search.
Surviving again the day, in peace they perch.
Their hunger is simple, in destiny's eye.
How graceful they are, the birds that fly.

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