Spilled Ink

Queries

When a bird's wings break, bleed, and lay limp on its sides,
how else could it regain the joy of flight?
Where do fish go when waters run dry?

I leaned in to hear that faintest sigh,
the answer so close, yet so distant.
Still I hear its cry;
pleading, longing, hiding
under the moon's watchful eye.
There lay the answers for these
haunting queries, already piled high.
In silence they were formed,
in silence still they were answered.

But they said it's there; lean in closer,
more, not quite near.
There's that whisper
seeking help from the apathy of air.
Faint, vague, restless—
one couldn't put words
to whatever explanation heard.
It was there, yet it wasn't.
Confusion reigned; it tore me apart.
The heart understood, yet I claimed I did not.
One and the same, are we not?

I asked, not entirely sure if in time all will be fulfilled.
My wings broke, bled, and laid limp on my side,
would they ever heal?
I am parched; the sun emptied my soul with its lies.
I was left in silence yet again,
in the company of endless whys.
Left to give birth to countless many;
have you more luck than me?

Then pray tell me:
Without the means to fly,
how else could a bird regain the joy of flight?
Oh, where do fish go when waters run dry?

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