Gatecrashing destiny at the
brink of starvation
Boundless, they are bonded
Flightless, they’ve responded
All the glories o’er the pond
beneath the great beyond
have touched upon the wind
that beats its coated tom-tom-tom
Breasts heave heaven up in breaths
À bout de souffle written on their tongues
and chests
A spawn of holy feathers in their nests
Scanning from these mountain rests
O, falcons, smothered, robed in jesses,
Guesses hanging from your necks,
connections braided for protection
With spirits screaming for collection,
may hooded clothes of your election
cover all your soaring, virile nakedness
The hunter’s savagery is only truly blighted by
mirrors
Their hunger only sharpened by horizons
Who knows how far it is to fall
when wings of weaponry grant thy one wish
To rise
And that is why I sing of falcons
The Replanted Writer 