And, O, I have known pain:
I have cut into hardwood's grain, and seen,
in those rings, stories of woe, and rain.
I have heard tales of waiting for season again:
for the soft touch of spring's refrain;
the return of summer's sensuous blaze.
And, O, I have heard women complain
that womanhood's joy is but a bane -
that every tear of joy is slain,
cut down by some tyrant's blade,
whose ego made him weak and grey -
they have nursed my ears with soft tales of pain.
And the sun that sets alone in orange flame,
and the widowed moon in her frozen frame,
waxing, as the stars onwards train, into absence, without a soul who came.
And me? Well, I have known pain.
Yes - these wings were once bound in chains;
now heavy feathers, like stone engrained.
But one day they shall flutter - and I shall fly away.