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A wanderer's wings
I fold my shameful wings
and pray that no one may see what I hide.
Dark stains taint the purity that was.
Wings hurl, averse to savage winds,
which change wings to a form
torn and aged by ceaseless use.
They do not return unscathed by storms;
wet salt lies upon what once was dry.
I mourn immaculate dove-white wings
which have been altered to a wanderer’s feathers,
because I know their fate;
to be submerged yet again by torrents
which rise against me.
The wanderer seeks but she does not find.
Her wings beat against the forces
that would thrust her back,
unlike the dove who was her,
who glided in fair weather and
knew not her doom.
The first harsh wind that blew
tore her more than all that will be.
The first wind sundered her from refuge
exposed her to foreign wreck,
which she thought she could not withstand.
yet she flew,
and flies gallantly through storms in which
she must wander.
Still, I pray for smiles
so that no one will perceive
a wanderer’s wings.
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