Poor little sparrows 

Flap your wings 

Let the blood drip 

From your skin

Deep wounds till your bones 

Let them show

like the morning sun 

Fly,

fall again in the mud 

Let the dust turn red 

Let you turn into dust

Who killed you? 

Little sparrows

Perched on the clouds 

Above my window panes

Whose arrows are these?

Fly, birds 

Let it rain blood 

Go to your nests, 

burnt

On the placid oceans 

Pull threads of her wave

Weave another lonely home 

On the petals of a scarlet rose 

Sweet birds 

This is no place to be 

Fly before your feathers fall 

As the Autumn's leaves 

Sit on the earth

That has turned yellow from green 

Here now take this dew-drop 

From the blade of grass 

Under my bloodied feet 

I am not walking any more 

No place where I should be

I rest here

By you

Take my wings 

Sweet birds, 

Today 

Just take my heavy dreams. 

Picture source: Google; Carel Fabritius' The Goldfinch, 1654

Copyrights of the poem are with Dabbler Scribbles(Abhishek Kumar)