To them whose wings are broken

by alice liang

They held onto the bongrace of clouds, cradled messages of their loved ones,

And went away undauntedly.

The field of despair had no wind;

Then rainstorm scoured everything, so the wind was no longer needed.

What we’ve hoped for a thousand of times 

Now seems to be a lost object that we could no longer cry at.

The vast land was weaved together by mahogany blood vessels,

Water supplied to the heart through crevices.

That day an immense bird, wings broken, plummeted heavily into that heart.

Scarlet blood turned into splattering tears,

Every creature on earth was wailing with the crippled heart.

The huge bird was carrying her hatchlings,

They fell together now in the same place, though into pieces.

Our hands are clinging to faith, so we put our palms together devoutly,

Whom we love are buried in the wilderness, also in our bodies.

Heaven, where no suffering persists, is an ever-blossoming spring for all seasons.

The many ages we went through holding hands

Now spread seeds midair where nothing could be depended on.

Upon their germination, they are calling over and over: “appear before us again.”