Quite a single stalk
Rooted beneath uncertain soil
Its head has not fallen
Its beauty has not been destroyed
Its leaves are still
for such a time
Its wing stretches upwards, holding its breath.
It awaits for a wind's first whisper
And quietly swears to itself.
That it will wrestle
Till the wind catches and lifts it altogether.
Like a man walking on water,
It uproots itself
and is willed to fly.
