They are not the rulers of the
sky. They don’t have thrones etched with gold. They don’t have crowns glinting
with numerous jewels. But they are the lords, who sail on their own wings. They
have eyes that can see miles ahead. Their necks are not lined with laces, but
with feathers. Or sometimes just bare.
They don’t have castles made of
stone and aluminum. They don’t have forts with canals snaking around it. They
build their homes with twigs. Each twig is gathered separately and with care. And
with those twigs they set up their haven up high in the furthest branch of a
tree. In these havens, they lay eggs and hatch them with warmth plucked from
their bosom. The small beaks breaking out from the eggs twit and twit, until
filled with food. The small wings grow as the tree grows and withers. The small
wings slowly befriend the wind, which will career them as long as they live.
The wind is their friend. Their only friend. Even the mother who nourished and
flourished them leaves them one day. But the wind remains. The wind remains
when the sun is shining brightly. The wind remains when the sun is made to hide
behind tones of cloud. The wind remains when the clouds give up their burden
and hail down pouring whole of their hearts. The wind remains even when the
wind forgets their friendship and becomes pregnant with animosity. The wind
always remains. They grow up with the forever young wind and one day die, but
not without flapping their wings not once, but twice.
They are born with wings which humans
dream of. Their lives are as momentary as the hum of a humming bird. Their independence
is the sky multiplied by the span of their wings. It is the wings, which
sheltered them when they couldn’t fly. And it is the wings, whose feathers shed
and grow back just like the swerve through firths and bosks. Physically they
are all bones and muscles and blood. They spread their wings as an artist who
spreads his/her colors across the mind of their admirers and make them wander
in wonder. Their wings carry their lives and make them fly over lands and seas
and deserts and ice. It is their wings which cut through the wind and take them
to places unknown and well-known. It is with the wings that they bind their
first bond with the wind. It is the wings that may not fulfill the function of a
human hand, but gives them superiority in the notion of self-independence. These
winged-lords are the master of the wind, which no soul can tame.
They live a life as burdened as
any animal, but still as light as a feather. They live a life on an edge as
sharp as a talon, but still as vagrant as the crows’ calls. They live a life as
vibrant as the chirping of a restless bird, but still as well-steered as the
south of a magnet is to the north of another.
They live free in
this death-bound world.
No comments:
Post a Comment