Not the
swift eagle’s prey nor hunter’s meat,

The
turbulent wind lifts you far on high,

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Through
winter chill or searing summer heat,

Another
summer night you’ll someday fly,

 

Your life
is small; the endless sky is vast,

 Soaring above red sand and cold, hard ice,

Above grey
clouds you’ll soar in flight at last,

Sorrows
left behind, taking chance with dice

 

Sharp
vision; constantly hunting for prey,

Like a
ghost, always felt but never seen,

Flying
silently with ethereal sway,

Traveling
at will; senses always keen,

 

Far over
misty mountain peaks snow-white,

On swift storm winds soar jubilant in flight.

x

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