the pages are torn
the cold wind blows them away
If I had nothing to do all day and if I knew the significance that it held,
I would have woven strings after strings of a thousand origami cranes for you.
Woven all the luck and all the health in the world and beyond,
Those colorful paper formations folded to perfection.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreamshis shadow shouts on a nightmare screamhis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedso he opens his throat to sing.