Guest Writer: Manya Agarwal
Songbird,
I am writing to you
again today
to tell you
The Sun is up.
The stars have faded into
that one tree among the
Mud-houses.
It’s cold, little bird.
There is a chill in the air,
My voice is broken, songbird,
My nails are blue. I’m
Deficient
in all forms of loveliness.
My hooves have grown.
Stronger. So strong
They are almost wings.
They can almost
Speak.
Sing.
Are you still up on that branch
behind the fire that never
made itself Known.
Are you still singing?
Have you eaten?
Does your mother call?
Does she ask you
about your cold? about
the friends you’re making?
Does she remind you,
The Future is Coming
It is coming directly towards you
Young bird.
But you’ll be fine. You can fly
With your big, strong, wings.
I shall wait for my hooves
to have eaten enough.
And then I will join you,
Blue Bird.
The future is the tree in the garden
Behind your childhood home.
Fall is almost over.
We have almost made it
to Shelter.
