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.
The wanderer seeks but she does not find.
Her wings beat against the powers
that would thrust her back.
Tis unlike when she was a dove,
who glided in fair weather
and knew not her doom.
The first harsh wind that blew
tore her more than all that will be.
The first wind sundered her from refuge,
exposed her to foreign wreck,
which she thought she could not withstand,
yet she flew,
and flies gallantly through storms in which
she must wander.
Still, I pray for smiles so that no one will percieve
a wanderer's wings.