Broken feather
A child put it in this book
This dusty book . . .

A child with my hands
A child with my name . . .
A child none the less

And i remember he thought
Something like
“This is an engine of the air
This is a magical thing
That can lift birds to the far places . . .”
Or something to that effect

And now
In this time when even my children are . . .
No longer children
And this delicate mechanism of cartilage
Has become dusty and . . . torn

Useless but no less magical

I mount it in my pinions
And take that young man’s hand
And this day

We fly . . .

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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