Up where the air is clean and sharp,
up where the wind is sharp and keen
like a knife poised between the ribs,
and the sun flings bright spears of gold
downward toward the distant earth
he hangs upon impatient winds,
wings at rest, without a beat
to trouble the clear air’s calm.
He waits and watches the far fields,
questing for the still signs of death
so he can sweep silently down
and tear the cold flesh from dead bone,
then arrow-swift return skyward
to scale again bright hills of cloud
that rise proud from the sea of sky
until he can soar no higher.
And I, earthbound wretch, can but watch
his stately path through spheres of air
withheld from me and from my kind,
doomed to watch and sadly wonder
how it is to ride the wild winds
and look in pity on the works
of mere men, shrunk to nothing, from
his icy throne. Ah! I must turn
my eyes from his circling splendour
patrolling his unchallenged realm
and pull the cord that links my hands
to the whirling shape that just I
can command, a pitiful thing
of wood and paper that soils his
name yet holds it in awe and praise:
My servant of the sky, my kite.
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