Wright above


On the edge of a high cliff

Stands a creature soft and stiff,

A monster of wood and cloth

They have built; a giant moth.

In the air it longs to dance,

Up so high above the land,

Its shackles it cannot stand!

Impatient it is to prance

Into the void far below,

In its wings to feel the flow.

Will it succeed? Will it fail?

Asking is to no avail

For its will is now its own,

Its way only by wind blown.


Poem number 300.


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