If I could fly.
The winds would hear my name,
carry me with it, whispering gently.
The rain would fall in torrential gales,
but I would welcome the water.
On my skin, the clouds.
Condensing on my face, in my eyelashes.
My eyes would be blinded by glistening water,
yet I would fly on to realms unknown.
Across the barren, bleak, siberian plains I'd glide,
and know they are not barren.
I'd see a rose, in the fires of war,
and scoop it into my arms, forever to give sanctuary.
To the fallen, I would sing,
and they would know that they are not alone.
I would be the wind, so soft, so gentle,
but at other times, angry gales.
I would fly close to the earth,
soaring high to the sun.
But my wings would not melt, like those of Daedalus son,
for my wings are not made of wax and string.
No, my wings are fashioned of only the best,
because my wings are made of hope.
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