The flying birds
Living in air above all
Above these trees and cages
And nests that breed
The helplessness of greed
Flying high day and night
With wings and eyes
Wide open to darkness and light
They look never down but up
They speed never backward but forward
Soaring high and high with anger
Of youth over the killing coup
Down below rotting the little world
Bartering the respect for every hunger
The flying birds
Look old at young
And die with a face of infant
their hard feet are made of mud
From mountains and river bed
Burnt in sun of history of war
Their hands are smooth
Like silk from good shepherd
And kind like sea breeze
Sailing the empty boats
To the shores of sailors
The flying birds
Never cry at the pain
Never smile at any trace of happiness
They fly singing lines
From some epic war
That brought freedom and voice
They fly very far
Till they don’t hear
The cries they fight for
They feel the deafness
Blinding their own voices
In the heights filled with nothing space
Their bodies heat up
Losing the water
To singing throats and hands that reap
The empty fields of governance
And the deadly crops of difference
The flying birds
Soon boil losing their blood
To the sun that’s nearing
Growing minute by minute more red
To these friends of mine soaring
The flying birds
Have their flesh torn
From friction of bulging gases
Bringing out the new born
From within the remains
They soon die
In space out there
For the smiles of world below here
Their ashes are picked
Up in the pages of history
And are made strong but weak
Strong because they inspire
Weak because they just inspire.
The coup never ends
Like their desire to fly high
And repair the sun above
That breed the jungle below
And their science
To de-acidify the clouds
That water the soils here.
Nature is beyond their song
And nobody knows what’s wrong.
May be we shall never fly
Like those flying birds
Only to die
To save the god in us.
-Aroon Che
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