How to let
go?
how to
breathe again?
how to
unlock the tiny door
to the
Tabernacle of my lungs?
How to let
the tiny bird of my breath
out through
the open door
of its
wicker cage?
how to let
the flapping birds of my breaths
explode from
my belly
like
Tarkovsky’s swallows
from Our
Lady’s heavy skirts?
Oh, let it
go, let it go!
The cage
isn’t made from wicker but from pride;
the door
isn’t locked with metal
but with
anger.
Let them
fly, let them fly!
The little
birds butt against the walls
of conceit
and hubris
woven
together into an armour
that binds the
spirit tighter
than a
torturer’s iron corset.
Let them
fly, let them fly!
Oh, let them
fly!
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