WINGS

Looking up at the sky, the clouds burst a myriad of colors.

Celebrating our new-found independence, declaring our victory and valor.

A smoky haze fills my surroundings, ashen and blinding.

The sun is drowning in the miasma, it’s not yet time.

Holding a dead bird in my palms,

Struggling with every ounce of life, it gives up in calm.

On the battleground lay many a martyrs.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; countless lives sacrificed in the barter.

Unbeknownst to me, the spirit of the dead bird set itself free,

Soaring wildly, with clipped wings, it flew towards the black sea.

‘This independence comes at a cost, the cost of my freedom’; it thought.

‘What is the use of this, when in exchange we have lost more than we fought?’

I don’t know whom to follow, when paths they have walked upon are trailed with blood.

Like finding a fresh flower in a swamp of coarse mud.

Thoughts poisoned, intentions cursed and speeches blurred.

I find myself sinking in this pit less deluge.

Where is this place I open my eyes, I wonder?

Standing tall in solidarity, freed from its own past burden.

The spirit of the dead bird, I hear calling my name from afar.

‘This independence comes at a cost, the cost of my freedom’; it declared scarred.