𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞

Why do birds fly when

the sky burns itself alive—

no salvation—born

to survive; while fake saints 

drown in the souls

of those they deprived?

Why do birds fly when

they’re battered and bruised;

bathe in crimson water,

all while feathers

are tattered—and yet,

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳?

Why do birds fly when

ferocious winds drive them

away from the land—

from where they planted seeds

of willows, in hope to catch a

𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸?

Why do birds fly when

they’re dead and buried—

their tongues bear no words,

and their cries no longer heard;

from above, they take flight,

soaring with all might?

But why do birds 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 fly?

They fly so you must see the morning light;

of how the sun sets the world ablaze,

not from the settlers' gaze;

not from the grudge of those who chased.

They fly so you must sing the melody,

a defiant whisper, of hope and fullness—

a sound to be passed to the children of rascals;

a song they mustn't forget.

They fly so you must remember

the martyrs of yesterday, today,

tomorrow; those who mourn the freedom

of the strong city. 

They fly so you must live;

you must flee.You must rejoice, 

and tell their stories of 

how they 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥; of how they 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥.

Because birds are free;

they are meant to fly.

Article: Valerie Acupado

Illustration: Zea Gestopa