The Prison of the Birds.
Touch me not!
I have yet to ascend, but I have pretended-
To live in this world.
Will I terrify you with what I heard?
They say at death we become like birds.
Flying, angelic, ethereal beings-
Locked in a heaven we have could have not foreseen;
So Large! Crowded by the sharp and obtuse,
Claws-the wings of all were all too large;
Even he who died by the noose.
So the birds they became;
And fell from the the sky-
For their wings were small
But their souls still high.