A poem created by a personal bard.
Underneath the beat of wings, the children sing.
Their feet in the grass as the eagles sore.
But there was one who did not sing.
For it was underneath the open twilight, that the immortal, hand had swept her away
Then the Earth was never the same.
The beat of wings overhead, sweep to the ground, instead.
Through trial and error.
We shall watch over you.
