I used to have wings.
Black ones, so big.
Big as my dream.
Dream to fly with them,
fly far away, without coming back.
Fly above my life,
watching all I’ve done.
All I’ve done in this dreadful life.
Life without flying unconditionally,
life with hindered and heartless ending.
They broke my wings,
and I’ve become untrustworthy.
I’ve lost my significance,
I’ve lost my purpose and merit.
I’ve become detached and reckless.
I want my wings back, cause I can’t
start again and crawl up without them.
It’s like a malison.
Having them on the back,
without using them whenever I want.
They are my burden while I’m burning
in this pusillanimous body I have left.