I burn'd
And ached for wings

The animal I wanted
Couldn't get into the world...
I can hear it crying
When I sit like this away from life.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt; And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

Whether I pound or am being pounded,
all the same there will be moaning!

Every time I try
To fly, I fall.
Without my wings,
I feel so small.

Oh, I just sing like I hurt inside.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

I confess I meant to grow
wings and lose my mind
I confess that I've
forgotten what for
Why wings and a lost mind

I'd fly. I sit and watch the birds go by and say, I wish I could do that.

Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano!

For if I wimp my wing on thine. Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing that she hath wings.

Be a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.

I have felt the wind on the wing of madness.