when the thistle browned, and her seed all went a-sailing?
Tattered wings, what became of thy beauty,
when the aster drooped, and her nectar stopped its flowing?Oh, tattered wings, what became of thy beauty,
when the days grew short, and chilly came the gloaming?
Fleeting, ephemeral, like thy tattered wings of orange?
Or is it, perhaps, something more?
Essential, everlasting, like the breath which lofts you t'ward the heavens?
Be not bothered by these foolish questions, nameless beauty;
they're merely the musings of a wingless, earthbound mortal.
Fly on, tattered wings. Fly on.