You are not fed soft food,
Not carried away in winter to warmth
And every hour with a diligent hand
Your wing is not sleek.
There, above the rock, near the azure,
On a dying oak
From the first days you have experienced the storms
And with hurricanes — a fight.
Teased young power
And heat, and hunger, and a thunderstorm,
And the ascendant
You looked over the sea in the eye.
But when it’s time to mature,
From the nest you spread your wings
And, waving them boldly trusting,
Expanding, swam across the sky.
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