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August 13, 2011

I wonder as I wander if the birds each wonder

why am I a bird?

Does it cling to the sky and sing existential chirps and ponder

why am I a bird?

Does it look down at the chained in empathy or derision,

recalling its ancestors in all their might and prime and glory, resenting

the chirp that was a roar, once upon a time long past?

Does it find repulsive or glorious our displays of giants’ bones

in halls of stone and walls of paint and cast in plastic?

Does it see those hollow beasts and see itself – its past or its future?

After all, they know faces and use tools

and are royal descendants of kings –

it is not far-fetched to suggest that the usurped-by-fate survivors

pihlosophize and wonder as they wander, despair and dream

like us as they fly

I once asked the birds this and

one shit on my head:

I get it, I get it.


From → Poetry

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