I remember when I taught birds how to fly,
it was a whisper of a memory from a time
when man had wings (though this was long before he bore that name),
watching their floundering efforts to master our lost gifts
I feel no regret for the day that man fell from the skies
and was born anew as the worm of the Earth
nude, half-blind, ill equipped.
And when I am with you
all I recall is how strangely beautiful
the gracelessness of the birds was,
such a rare moment I was invited however unintended
into this ritual of trial and error,
to know they are not inherently born as flawless
ambassadors of the wind.
We remind each other that even the gods cannot take
what belongs to the soul,
though earth bound our wings have not been severed
only rendered invisible, and within your eyes
I can see the reflection of my wings,
and I can almost feel yours brush against me,
the caress of the wind through phantom feathers.
In time the birds find mastery over our former gift
and we watch them rise as messengers,
though I know from this moment the birds and I
must once more become strangers
I will carry the name of Prometheus
within their own fast beating hearts.
Labyrinth of the Mind 