IRC-Galleria

No magic in the life anymore,
I have torn it apart,
scratched out of my wrists.
In the lifelong line you canÂ’t store
the memories, theyÂ’ll fall apart,
like birds, theyÂ’ll fly beyond forests.
But something there is that fills my lungs with
air, through the sharpness
causing tumour in my throat.
I fear my new voice, its roughness.
Finally, it will take my words apart.
And still, I see birds running,
rushing with their tiny legs.
The narrow-eyed god did not
allow them to use wings.
He wanted to make known a knot
made of throats of birds rebelling
against the law considering
their ability to use wings.
Wizards told me to look for magic
under the balloon-shaped trees
planted near to the never-freezing river.
I was advised to fall down on my knees,
and pray for perfection of my mind.
But it was an exercise of certain kind
done only by those who later
gave away their ability to sing.
I did not want my throat to be treated,
my vocal cords to be removed
and my lungs to be taken away.
I still wanted to stay, through the sharpness
of the air and through the roughness
of my tiny voice. I made a choice
to steal my wings and fly
beyond the woods, and store
every rebellious bird in the freedom,
and not to hurt them anymore.