Link: Photo
Broken Wing
There she be
high up on the grave
perched on the stone
Wings mangled like a toothless comb.
Sorrow in her wings
Dark shadows under her skin
How can she come down
If not for tormented kin.
She has tasted the wine
Left brothers, sisters to wine
They are but distorted shapes in the mist
Can she help to transform hope into bliss.
She must slide down
In effort to catch the last hand
If only to release it once again
Into the Mystical Purge.
Viewing the scene below
The question is “What can she sow”
So as to enable the just
And the strong to mellow.
Healing breath into her wings
She drops the heavy boots
Standing tall on the rock
Glancing once more below.
Extending renewed found wings,
She slips from the face of what has been
Entering within new found freedom
She encounters all of her Sacred Kin.
Hélène Vaillant©
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