Walked upon a young man,
In a large golden field,
With strings in his hands,
I asked him why he was there,
He must have been thinking,
All he did was stare.
Then he said,"I am trying to fly."
He was holding four birds,
Each of them tied.
In an instant he let them go,
The began flapping around,
To and fro.
In an instant they fell to the ground,
Little black ravens,
Twitching and bound.
"Well that didn't work he said,"
He looked down at the birds,
Holding his head.
For a moment I followed his gaze,
But when I looked up,
He was gone in the haze.
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