Perplexed, emerging out of sweetened soils,

with weeds around I am acquainted not.

To water me in morns, an old man toils,

albeit his name and mood, I realize not.

The sun and moon revolve as I increase.

I see abounding eagles stretch their wings,

and proudly fly beneath the glaring sun,

unleashing glares of freedom free of fear.

I see the moths extend their patterned wings,

and they sublimely flutter by the moon,

and lightly amble with the blissful breeze.

The sun and moon revolve as I increase.

At last I bloom; The flower’s petals fledge.

The plumes enable flight against the winds,

and fly beyond the summits and the sky.

Alas disgruntled is the old man’s heart;

My stalk he grabs, and down to earth he drags,

for what he covets are resemblance to the weeds;

The fronds he rips; The flying plumes he plucks,

to cease my flight departing from his heart.

By slicing strings my stalk is tightly bound,

and caged in rusted wires with spikes I am,

provoking tears in heart and blood in eyes.

Am I his, caged akin to circus beasts?

Yet what is mine, is mine, and mine alone!

The sun and moon revolve as I increase,

and fronds and wings shall always stretch again,

despite the blood, to shatter strings and wires.

As many times the plumes regrow anew,

As many times the old man plucks them out;

As many times the old man plucks them out,

As many times the plumes regrow anew.

Author Bio: Wilson is majoring in English Language Education. In his spare time, he enjoys writing poems, short stories and essays. He also enjoys reading, and his interest shifts from time to time. Sometimes, he prefers reading books of philosophy to literature, and sometimes it is the other way around.