I fold my shameful wings


and pray that no one may see what I hide.


Dark stains taint the purity that was.


Wings hurl, averse to savage winds,


which change wings to a form


torn and aged by ceaseless use.


They do not return unscathed by storms;


wet salt lies upon what once was dry.


I mourn immaculate dove-white wings


which have been altered to a wanderer’s feathers,


because I know their fate;





to be submerged yet again by torrents


which rise against me.


The wanderer seeks but she does not find.


Her wings beat against the forces


that would thrust her back,


unlike the dove who was her,


who glided in fair weather and


knew not her doom.





The first harsh wind that blew


tore her more than all that will be.


The first wind sundered her from refuge


exposed her to foreign wreck,


which she thought she could not withstand.


yet she flew,


and flies gallantly through storms in which


she must wander.


Still, I pray for smiles


so that no one will perceive


a wanderer’s wings.