Circular

Entwined

as feathered flock upon the breeze

somewhat less divine in our declined

pirouettes toward the seas—

these claws are not unbloodied,

these beaks, they aims to ache,

but though our flight be muddied

our crosses yet shall never break,

for neither I, nor you

can take the pain we bring,

but far worse the silence would accrue

without that other voice to sing.