So tiny, so small,
you haven't yet learned to fly.
Your wings beat hard but only in vain
against the star-lit sky.
I watch you from my windowsill,
watch you flap your wings.
My heart beats with yours, pounding fast
as we both dream of higher things.
We wonder what's beyond these walls
what we might see if we left.
They tell us we're better off here
but worries fall on our ears gone deaf.
You're frustrated, I see
that you cannot fly away.
Atleast you have wings, little one
and won't always be forced to stay.
Maybe the words our elders spoke
struck deeper than you thought.
It might be best if we both stayed here
where danger and despair lies naught.
You turn your head up towards me
as if you had heard me say
don't leave me little one;
stay here for another day.
A night-air summer breeze blows by
as you stretch your wings for flight.
And I realize no one can make you stay
as you soar to find new heights.
Someday soon I'll follow you,
gliding swiftly in your wake
for I'm coming to learn our lives are just that:
ours, and it is all about what of it we make.