A bird flying
Is a flight in self.
It is a movement
In self and
It is a cry, too.
I hunt the sound.
I shoot its wing.
I feel that
The air fractures.
The flight is fractured.
I still love you.
For sure, for sure, I still love you.
The feeling slips
In the place,
From where the white bird fell
From the moment
To the eternity.
In that place,
To bear your name
As a red spot on the
A spot, which could be white.
Can be crushed,
That pain taking another pain
From the agony of death
Between saints, only
He has our feelings, too.
To touch Him.
Marieta Maglas's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Flight by Marieta Maglas )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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