Below that tree
She lays
In the shadow
Of nearby awnings
Beneath
Two massive windows
Like eyes
Among cultured stone

Where feathers
Between each blade
Of grass
Still wet from morning
Cradle
Her empty vessel
Which housed
Such delicate life

When once
They opened big
And welcomed air
As freedom
To dare these skies
Their limits
While soaring
Beyond those clouds

Crashing
Within our tracks
Through chance
So unexpected
Speaking of
Fallen natures
For men whose wings
Stay gold

And tell
How futures last
Not long
Until we witness
This fading thrill
Of fortune
Land harshly
On new ground

Since money
Just can’t save
What God himself
Distinguished
At the hands
Of innocent suffering
To teach old birds
They’re wrong.

– J. Pigno