Typewriters flew across fields and fidelity 

Only to land atop of lonely bog man 

With no mountain of his own 

Just grass to reed in cupped accepting hands.

As language of stitched eiderdown 

that passed With the navigation of seven Suns 

And porcelain lions as guardians 

To remind we were not born with wings.

Only burnt finger tips to show 

For picking at scorched feathers