Hang on to my wings of hope
we fly to the land of gods
So that with our laughter
we release them from their sleeping caves
And in their ears
whisper the song of love
So maybe from now on
The product of lovers
Is not heaps of burning ashes
of their existence.
به بال هايه اميدم اويزان شو
تا با هم
به سرزمين خدايان سفر كنيم
و انان را با خندهايمان
از خواب گاهشان بيرون كشيم
و در گوششان سرود عشق بخوانيم
تا شايد از اين پس
خاكستر خرمن هستيشان نباشد
If anyone can help me with a better translation of this persian poem I would appreciate it.
I caressed the wings of sunrise
diaphanous and vague
against the morning light
while it embraced me
with a remote grin
while it taught me
to speak to my soul
looking each other
bound together by clouds threads
faint like frost
impalpable like spider's embroideries
regardless of distance
regardless of time.
when gravity breaks the wings
clean off your back,
hit the ground running,
and collapse into my chest.
My paper crown has burned.
My wings have been ripped away.
My faerie godmothers are not real,
Neither is the court of Fae.
So while I sit and wait
For a darling prince to come,
I may as well remember
That there isn't going to be one.
It was a few inches from my rubber shoes,
i almost stepped on it!
if i had, i would forever feel guilty...
i was in shock, and....puzzled
a small yellow creature.....moving forward
when it should have moved upwards...
in its silence, its voice rang in my mind
friends had already left the area, but,
i waited....for clearance...
........hoping, to see it rise again, and.....
my expectations seemed doomed
..............so, they failed
..........i finally turned to leave
......and...left its fate....
...to its empowered movers.....
It resembled a new yacht...being wheeled
by a bigger cart, towards the ocean,
for its initial dip..........
:::::::::the wings of this yellow creature
were widely spread....seemed ready to soar high
yet, it didn't move a bit...
it could no longer fly...
for the last time, i looked,
:::::::::::: and saw,
four tiny black ants, persevering,
this dead yellow butterfly...
the trail went on and on, toward
their inconspicuous hill on the ground...
my feelings were indefinable that moment,
it was hard to speak...or decide
......ants?...... or .........butterflies?
::::: not their fault...they both matter! :::::
Copyright March 16, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
I can't help but envy the birds with small wings,
As they're flapping and fluttering up towards the sky.
Sure, they got problems: make a nest, don't get killed, find a mate.
But I think I could handle those, much better than my own life.
My cat killed a bird yesterday, with small little wings.
She brought it right up to my doorstep, barely breathing
As it chirped endlessly for mercy.
I watched as that little bird's eyes were punctured,
its white and grey breast feathers stained the prettiest pink.
Sitting there, on the other side of that see through door,
I wished I could've been a bird with small wings.
Had I been born a bird and as sad as I am now,
All I would have to do is sit in the middle of a yard,
And wait to be plucked away as one's lunch.
No one would miss me, nor care that I disappeared.
Heck, no one would even know I was gone.
I could be free of everything without being seen as selfish.
But I was not born a bird with small wings.
Too bad for that, being a bird would've been cool.
When all the rocks
will have been thrown
and the last crumb
will be blown in the wind,
when even the final pledge
will has been violated
and just the darkness
will offer us refuge,
in the deafening uproar of the fear
will be my guide,
my only certainty.
I'll find you,
and we'll raise
on transparent wings
of golden bees,
above it all,
Let me fly toward the horizon,
where the night lies down on the sea
and the mountains wrinkle the sky,
where the dreams assemble
and the boundaries fade in the wind.
I'll alight on that thin ribbon,
between myself and the infinite,
my eyes slivers of blue,
clouds my wings.
And to hold me,
only the rhythmic, unceasing beat of my heart.