Floating in the sky,
lifted by the wind into a world not its own.
Tethered to a palm,
slender, fragile, swaying with the wind.
O ceaseless wind—
please, do not grant it freedom.
O wind.
You could see.
You could feel.
Its torn skin,
its splintered frame.
Wind…
You will not stop,
will you?
…
Then, fly.
With the warmth of the hand that once held you,
to the highest reaches of the sky,
to the vanishing point of sight.
Fly.
In the ceaseless wind.
Yearn not for home,
long not for the stars.
Then, fly.
On the Kármán line,
in the thinning air.
By the faint yet eternal wind.
Then, fly.
Even if you can never return home,
even if you can never touch the stars.
Fly.
In the ceaseless wind.
