The woman took the bird with the charcoal feathers

and stuck it behind the brass bars

like a bold, beautiful garnish

used to embellish the vacant corner.

With a handful of wood chips

and a few scattered seeds,

she beamed at the bird’s lovely abode,

never seeing behind delicacy’s dark veil.

Behind the bitter bars,

the bird could eat and breathe.

But its songs were cut short,

and its wings longed for the open air.

It was alive,

but it wasn’t living.

Its wings idly lay,

lacking a vivid fire.

Yet, she continued admiring,

seeing soil in its ashes

and serenity in its sorrow.

It was a fatal bridge with no end.