They'll tell you how beautiful are your wings,

While they bind your pinions and strip your feathers.

"So graceful and so precious!  Such lofty, ethereal things,"

The words like rusty chains, cracked leather-sentiment tethers.

They'll tell you, "Rise above the sorrow, fly from the pain,"

After they teach you to clip your own wings so you won't fall,

And when the confusion sets in they'll be the first to tell you you're sane.

"People can't fly," they'll say, and point to the wings nailed to their wall.