My eyes are furnace-red. Was I born to stand down or am I being tugged and dragged? One hand rives the other as I write a common poem, But at least the birds are freed and fed. I am part of the bunch that never stopped migrating. If the wind is warm and wraps us hard, We fight through songs of grief So that our flight goes far. We become sharper And the pain that would before wound us Now falls in the form of rain. I checked the language of the mountain To see if I still was pronouncing it the right way. It was the same, I was the same, But sharper and further away.