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By Shrey Gaur
The feathers are frozen, with the last night's mist
Being fed on nothing, the body's turned heavy
I rattle my syrinx exertingly, to chirp;
For the survivors of the flock to hear and levy.
Yet again we arrange ourselves and set off
To leave the unforgiving, cold Earth beneath
And flap our wings as hard as we can
As the winds play inside the feathery sheath.
The sights tear through the white translucent fog
To find it covering even whiter snow
The directions are clear, keep fluttering till you fall;
It is winter still, South is miles to go.
As the Earth travels its usual path for the day
Our bodies are jaded too, aimlessly going ahead
The wings enervated, the fuel lower than ever
The momentum carrying forward, the spark inside-worse than dead.
The scent before that of stagnant blood
Is luckily of some greens near
But before even the sign of life is in our view
Hunters, with a few of us, kill our last fear.
There lies another boy prostrately, hunting for thoughts
As we are about to land, and heave a sigh
The pen in his mouth, and his eyes meeting mine in sky
On his note,I can only figure out
The few words in bold-"Wish I could fly!"