Free the birds to prophesy; fly like a bird.
The feathery bars of a cage
pronounced order from the smoky chaos
of fires on the hillside; call me home
and I’ll become a ray
that slips through the stark white bars
The moon rising in a half sliver
was red, and called me freedom.
I rose into the smoke and ash,
between the sun and the moon
as a pheasant would,
primed to recall
all beauty for mourning
with a sweet voice, lilting trill:no cage can hold this song.