27

My mother and father dead,
   who will raise me?
Where is the road
   in the unbounded?
In whose breast will I hide
   in times of trouble?

Where's the nest
   where my beak will tap the crack
And struggle free? Where
   the nest, once born,
To feed and crack
   the world?

My feathers weak and wet,
   I seek the face of light;
Dry them for flight,
   to swoop, eat in this world
That I might sing
   and dwell in song.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998