the bird flew over thousands a mile,
spreading his wings like a forest fire.
in search of warmth, a nest undisturbed.
crossing the cities, tall buildings, all the glitters
and it flew over lofty snowy peaks, and frozen rivers
all his flight he longed for warmth that will heal.
until he found the warmth in your eyes,
and so he made a nest in that corner.
a nest so perfect, so loving and dependable,
where the snow never fell and the sun never scorched.
he rejoiced at the end of his long journey and rested his wings.
but little he knew the winter was flying behind, as if stalking
with a cruel vindictive look, with a smile saying be happy for the moment
and then like an eagle falling on its prey, fell on the bird, breaking the nest.
and he flew again, crossing another thousand a mile, with broken wings.
was it the winter to be blamed or the ignorance of the bird i wonder!
is there a real nest ever? anywhere? does our journey ever end?