Dead feathers falling from wings grown tired,
Spiraling down in zigzag motion
Uncertain like the night, repetitive like moonlight,
Round and round, ever turning, and returning to the Unknown,
like the dawn and the end of days.
Left on the ground, lifeless as squashed fruits,
And dead toads, abandoned to waxbills’ beaks,
Then claimed by other sister birds of prey
Hanging on high branches, with sharp tongues
And wings sweeping low to gather them
With deep piercing eyes and snatching toes,
From earth’s embrace to the gates of heaven.
