Often, birds in flight make me think
Of my soul and its plight: they make me think
Of life's anguish and then ponder
If life doesn't lie yonder
Yonder beyond the hills and sky
If when life, pulsing in life's veins
Is but a dream, an illusion
Birds in flight, dreams and delusion.
Now, in an instant, the beating of wings
Have faded; nothing remains.
No remnants, not even a song.
The beating of my heart goes on and on.
Copyright: Rani Turton