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I asked a bird

if I could borrow its wings

just for a while

so I could fly back home.

It didn’t answer.

It dropped a few feathers.

I stood there,

holding them,

thinking

what does a man do

with feathers

lighter than his heart,

thinner than his blood,

lighter than his sweat,

and all the work

he buried inside time.

My body is heavy.

I know that.

So I leave my fate with God.

Because even if my bones refuse,

I still believe

my soul

remembers how to fly.

I’ve crossed oceans like a bird.

Let’s not romanticize it.

I used a plane.

No wings.

No sky songs.

Just tickets, queues,

and a goodbye

that stayed longer than expected.

When I landed on this land,

I got busy in my lane.

Survival doesn’t ask poetry,

it asks rent.

But tell me,

what name do you give

to pain

when everyone around you

calls it opportunity?

I know I’m not the only one

living in a cage.

Some cages look like jobs,

some look like smiles,

some look like “I’m fine.”

Not every emotion

is meant to be staged.

Yes,

I earned something.

Money.

Distance.

A tougher skin.

But how long

can you lock yourself in a night,

hold a beer like a peace treaty,

and convince your heart

whispering to it,

slowly,

patiently,

lying gently,

“Happy days.”