Wings

When I were a young girl
I often dreamt I could fly
upon wings made of gold
and soar the skies
I’d kick of the ground
the walls, whatever I could find
looking up at the blue
and soon over the trees, green and tall
I would bounce, flapping my wings
with the V of birds taking my lead
land and seas I would see
and many a faces and creeds.

Now I dream
without my wings
and on dear Earth I look up
still envious of the big blue
with the flock of birds
and places they see.

If only I still had wings
to take flights of fancy.

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