Ever the optimist, ever the observer
Lifts their limbs from up the floor;
Bends not into the whims of fervour.
Yet wingless, flies forevermore

With day birds—too, the nightjars—
Far—then further out in hopes to meet
The Sun while shine the stars
Through Heaven’s map—in angels’ seat.

Upon their lap a harp does rest
For hearts whose angered beatings grind
In protest—and off shall flow its dust
For ears enamoured by song as the blind.

© Joseph Chin
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