I fold my shameful wings
and pray that no one may see
what I hide.
Dark stains taint the purity of what was.
Wings hurl, averse to savage winds,
which change wings to a form
worn and aged by endless use.
They do not return unscathed by storms;
wet salt is thrown against what was dry.
I mourn immaculate dove-white wings
which have been altered to a wanderer's feathers,
because I know their fate;
to be submerged yet again by torrents
which rise against me.