Birds with wings,
They all have wings,
Some soar above the clouds,
Through the gloden rays,
Of the burning sun,
But not all are so blessed,
Others are shot down,
By a satisfying bang,
From the barrel of a loaded gun,
Pointed and aimed at feather planes,
Some are born,
Incapable of flight,
Earth-bound and dreaming,
Of days filled with sky,
Yet the saddest,
Of flightless birds,
Are those who flew,
And woke with broken wings