If every human had a pair of wings
(Made of strong muscles and broad feathers
Rather than wax like Icarus’)
Who wouldn’t jump high or become eager to fly
Either towards the setting sun
Or against the rising wind?
Who wouldn’t migrate afar with sunshine
And glide most straight to a warmer spot
In the open space? Indeed
Who would continue to confine himself
Within the thick walls of a small rented room?
Who would willingly take a detour
Bump into a stranger, or stumble down
Along the way? More important
Who would remain fixed here
At the same corner all her life
Like a rotten stump, hopeless
Of a new green growth?