The Bird That Remembered the Sky
Behind cold bars, a small bird stayed,
Where light arrived but never played.
Its wings grew still, its song grew low,
Yet in its heart, wild heavens glowed.
The cage could hold its fragile frame,
But not the fire that spoke its name.
For every night, it dreamed in flight—
Beyond the walls, beyond the night.
It sang of winds it used to know,
Of silver moons and dawn’s first glow.
And though its feathers brushed the wire,
Its soul remained a living fire.
One day, the rusted door swung wide;
The bird stood trembling just inside.
Freedom was vast, the world unknown—
The cage was cruel, but it was known.
Then courage whispered, “You were made
For more than living half-afraid.”
It spread the wings once taught to hide
And trusted what still lived inside.
Upward it flew, through sun and rain,
Above the memory of its pain.
And every feather seemed to sing:
“No cage can own a living thing.”
For bars may bind the feet awhile
And sorrow steal a creature’s smile,
But nothing built by fear or lies
Can make a soul forget the skies
