The books are burning,
the offending pages soaked with gasoline,
fluttering in the wind like helpless sparrows
trying to escape the flames but failing.
But off those struggling pages,
the tiny black letters and words are freed
onto torn ivory scraps that become feathers.
Overlapping like a crushed typewriter’s keys,
they come together, the words joining
to form a set of wings,
a bold, avian truth
that flies above the leaping pyre
like a phoenix rising.
It escapes the burning prison,
soaring over the city,
words in its beak as it dips beneath the moon,
bearing them like the dove with its olive branch.
The people look out golden windows
with hope.