Wings that fly, burning feathers in the breeze.
Soaring higher than any drug could take.
Roaring sounds come from underneath the steeze.
Falling feathers land hurting them to shake,
As pebbles do rippling the bright water,
Afraid to dry off from the rippling lake.
Still the wing's craving to soar is hotter
Than any water boiling its specter.
For to soar, wings will always be martyr.
Death to itself, following the vector.
For the ground and grind is my true sector.
(This poem is written in Terza Rima)