Soaring with the Birds

Yiithla 22

I've composed this poem-

Soaring

I long to fly with the birds,

to feel the clouds caress my face,

as I go swooping by,

forgetfull of the scolding words

on the ground below.

I long to float somewhere

between sun and sky,

in that place you can only go in dreams.

Lay about without a care,

daydreaming and half-asleep.

Doing this is what I yearn for,

my one and only dream.

My hope for a brighter tomorrow

than the day before.

To fly among the birds, my wish.

Obviously, this is not something worth keeping. I am no poet, yet it holds a sentimental value to me. It's my dream, as the poem states, to fly. I don't know what is so inviting about it, it just seems to be in my blood; the want, the desire, to fly with the eagles. I've always loved birds for their freedom. But the only birds I'd ever seen in England were pidgeons and brave mockingbirds. The occasional chicken also came my way, but they were always dead. Madam Fat-bottom doesn't like alive animals.