“I read; I travel; I become.”

—  Derek Walcott

Caged Bird

BY MAYA ANGELOU

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

“

He is a bad boy who listens to French music
and draws glamourous buildings.
Words of romance
is leaking from his mouth. 
He is the celebrity I want
to wake up in bed somewhere in Paris.

In a petite and pretty apartment, 
sleeping in lingerie with perfume 
on our sun-kissed skin. 
I let him draw me naked
on the balcony while 
smoking luxurious cigarettes.

And he moans the words; Je t’aime ma chérie..

”

—	Mama, I Am Running Away To Paris by Royla Asghar

Songs of a Girl by Mary Carolyn Davies
 1918

“Have you ever made a mistake?
A real one? Burned or held a body
you didn’t want because you could feel
its ruin, and it wasn’t you.”

—  Stevie Edwards, from “Sorry I’m Not Sorry”

 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)      

Ozymandias.

    I met a Traveler from an antique land, 

    Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 

    Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand, 

    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 

    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 

    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, 

    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 

    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: 

    And on the pedestal these words appear: 

    "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings." 

    Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair! 

    No thing beside remains. Round the decay 

    Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, 

    The lone and level sands stretch far away.