Twentieth of January

                         The angelic clarions slept in silence

                         when I was falling here to the darkness,

                         with my truncated wings as I tried to fly

                         horrified by the wild, predator life;

                         the angels were crying in heavenly dome,

                         knew, how tight is this bodily-prison,

                         were mourning for my parting's narrow passage

                         and the world was deaf to hear their message,

                         just wondered, ah, why does the new-comer weep,

                         laughing took me into inventory,

                         and no one cared for the mystery of birth

                         whilst I was seeking my lost quill-feathers;

                         as pebbles poke in the shoe, the encysted

                         lack stayed with me, hurts since more than sixty

                         years, get stuck between two worlds, a fool exile,

                         I never cognize the beautiful-dire

                         delight of glamorous-dreadful Earthly life.