Wings, they say, are not formed by dreams
but a serene reality
In this world they grow,
yet out of this world they are grown
In the depth of a night’s prostration I heard their rustle,
As I helped the old lady onto the bus, they fluttered on my side
When I looked upwards, only seeking his face
My legs felt light
They raised me high, till I embraced the sky
and discovered myself… and made her mine.
Wings are grown to complete oneself,
when oneself can let go and become free.
Note: To gain a better understanding of this poem, read the other poem “An outpouring of darkness” first, and the note I posted beneath it.