Untitled

I saw a wind chime once

In a Spanish movie

So dramatic

Like the roots of Spanish soul.

It was a bird

Petrified in flight;

First the impulse

Then the doubt

The wings curled back in fright

Or expectation perhaps

Then it ventures into air

No one knows if cold or warm

Only its feathers know the truth

But then it stops in midair;

After freedom, it is frozen.

A metaphor for our lives.

It’s tied to a string,

Poor creature.

The top of the wind chime

Echoes the start.

It dies when it gorgeously began

A second of love

Of light

Of the promise of pure skies.

It’s plastic though

It’s precisely what we are.