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A recorded reading of “The Bird Who Forgot the Sky”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Once, she soared where echoes fade, where clouds dissolve and light is made. But now she waits with tethered wings, inside a cage that hums and sings. She used to know the open air, the rush of weightless, rolling dare. The sun would rise, the earth would shrink, but now she stops before the brink. The wires hum, the bars stay still, the world beyond a paper hill. And though the wind still calls her name, it’s just a song, it’s not the same. Did she lose the sky, or did the sky lose her? Did the wings forget, or did they just defer? If I leave, where do I go? If I stay, do I even know? What’s beyond, what’s underneath— or was the sky just made of teeth? She tests the door, she shakes the lock, the golden perch, the ticking clock. She spreads her wings, but just to see, as if afraid she won’t believe. The ground is safe, the walls are known, the fear of space, the fear of bone. And though the sky still calls her home, she tells herself, the ground has grown. Maybe cages don’t have doors. Maybe flight is just a chore. Maybe fear’s the safest place. Maybe sky is just a name. If I leave, where do I go? If I stay, do I even know? What’s beyond, what’s underneath— or was the sky just made of teeth? A single bird call… then silence.
Lyrics
Once, she soared where echoes fade, where clouds dissolve and light is made. But now she waits with tethered wings, inside a cage that hums and sings. She used to know the open air, the rush of weightless, rolling dare. The sun would rise, the earth would shrink, but now she stops before the brink. The wires hum, the bars stay still, the world beyond a paper hill. And though the wind still calls her name, it’s just a song, it’s not the same. Did she lose the sky, or did the sky lose her? Did the wings forget, or did they just defer? If I leave, where do I go? If I stay, do I even know? What’s beyond, what’s underneath— or was the sky just made of teeth? She tests the door, she shakes the lock, the golden perch, the ticking clock. She spreads her wings, but just to see, as if afraid she won’t believe. The ground is safe, the walls are known, the fear of space, the fear of bone. And though the sky still calls her home, she tells herself, the ground has grown. Maybe cages don’t have doors. Maybe flight is just a chore. Maybe fear’s the safest place. Maybe sky is just a name. If I leave, where do I go? If I stay, do I even know? What’s beyond, what’s underneath— or was the sky just made of teeth?
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