By Hansol Hwang —
The sound of a wren,
a sharp and subtle whisper through the ages.
Flightless are the words that settle on the pages.
Soundless are the wings that inscribe the air.
Shameful are the eyes that have seen.
Hateful are the talons that gleam.
No branch nor tree can carry its burden.
Its plumes pleasantly endure shifting winds,
abrasive like the poison of sin.
The drop of a feather,
passes through an uninvited air,
settles on an empty street,
with an obnoxious thud of a pounding heartbeat.
Like a drop of rain bouncing off city concrete.
Its sound echoes empty conversations,
Heavy drops; footsteps to a silent nation
Empty houses; a violent generation.
The wind blows an empty swing,
the rattling rust, children sing.
A whisper sounds a bugle, let freedom ring.
A sound of a wren, let freedom sing.