Broken Wings

It is a story of a bird. It has been flying here and there. It has seen truths and lies. It has seen evils and angels. It has been chirping around. Sometimes, it gets tired flying around. Sometimes, it lands on a branch of a tree feeling happy of finding a place to lay its wings. It stopped to mend its wings, feeling beautiful and overwhelmed of finding new branch, a strong yet mild branch.

Yet, it never realized that it didn’t belong to those branches when the branches started to swing it right and left. They shook it, made it shivered and caused the bird fell to the ground.

It started to fly to another place and chirped. When it got tired, it started to seek another branch. Hence, the same thing happened over and over again. It came to the last branch that did the same thing to it. It shook the bird hard to make it realized (again) that the branch was not meant for it to settle.

The memories of the previous branches danced in front of its eyes. The bird realized that the greater shook has ever taken place before. It shook so hard, crashed the bird onto the ground that its wings were broken. Here it went again.

They have been broken. Yes, they have.

It fell to the ground and it had come to an end. The bird is dying. It could neither fly nor moved.

The bird could no longer mend its beautiful wings.

The bird started to embrace the wounds.

The bird is now enjoying the only things that it had. Yes, they are the wounds.

The bird shed its tears in silence as it always does.

The tears that the bird and God only who understand why.

The bird has not died (yet).

The silence that guards the tomb does not reveal God's secret in the obscurity of the coffin, and the rustling of the branches whose roots suck the body's elements do not tell the mysteries of the grave, by the agonized sighs of my heart announce to the living the drama which love, beauty, and death have performed.

(Broken wings, Kahlil Gibran)