This cage, a feather, comforts me;
upon a talon, let me lean
by the shallows in which I’ve dropped my axe;
my body nestled in dark wings.
My spirit searches for the Throne of Heaven,
at which your song of birds does sing.
As you’re of the sky, I, man of Earth
can only hope, and dream
of the day in which the mortals meet
with the realm of bounties lost to we
of fragile heart, and tempted mind,
our lives enveloped by the day
the future outlasts our darkened past,
through the work we like to say
gets put in for greater heavens’ home,
whatever we think that is.
A little this, a little that;
for such a phrase, I call you Ziz.