With wings at rest longer than its tail My hobby waits. Great bird of creation, Where do you come from? As I sit and mull You take flight to and from places I may Never know, Where are you taking me, Great spirit on high, far, farther-ring with light And the wind, which streams then to delirium Heights? I am bled and I am torn. Must I Suffer in my soaring? Your clutch, tings The sky, pierce the cloud, my hobby hovers, I dream of coronations, talons to my head— A crown of thorns.