On this beaten, barren shore,
we are as birds of a feather;
ravaged by the endless swells,
we stand and flock together.
Some of us cannot make flight:
the world has clipped their wings;
doomed before they left the egg,
they plunge to the dirge we sing.
A few shall soar above their kin
and rise to the heavens, like flame:
we trill our praise, their wing beat stills
and they plummet, all the same.
Most will stand and wait ashore
and caw their discontent;
each cry that adds to the tumult
a tale of failed ascent.
Do what we will, have we no choice
but to do what we will do?
Hear the anguish in our cries:
our screeches as we question why,
from those who fail before they try
to those who scrape the stars on high,
it is that birds may only fly
when we must all fall from the sky.