after they cut my wings stubby stumps remained
aching in weather in cold and in mist
but especially aching at dawn
when the heavens tear away from the earth bleeding
they couldn't cut them off completely
to pull them out like you pull weeds
to burn them
electrothermocauterization as wealthy breeders
do to their horned cattle
buds of wings grew again and again at every deep excision
and they grew tired beyond measure
tired so much that i would have said they’d give up
and leave me in my pains to go
higher and whiter
further away
but they didn't let me
they cut them from higher up so only stumps remain
aching in the cold
in rusty evenings they walk me through the burg packed with scents
and aromas of tea
of bell towers and saints crucified at the crossroads of ages
centaurs and sphinxes
they don't put me up for sale they just show me off like a trophy won with sweat
and they laugh loudly dear Alter
they talk about life as if they were talking about an old whore
and they laugh
again and again as if laughter kept away their hunger and cold
they don't break me
they don't lose me i only startle at intervals
as if they’re scared that i still fly high like this without wings
out of this burg too full too old
too damp
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