نسر

The slopes have turned into a playground for the eagles... rise in anger, mountain peaks, and revolt.

If the wound has a cry, then send it forth into the hearing of existence as the hiss of a blazing fire.

Cast down your pride as a bleeding corpse beneath the feet of your drunken time.

Gather up the remnants of the eagle, mountain peaks, and hurl them against the chests of the centuries.

It no longer dazzles the eyelid of the star with the swagger of its scattered plumage.

It abandoned its nest in a daze, and upon its eyes lay the weight of a final farewell.

Leaving behind processions of clouds that collapse from their enchanted horizon.

How often they crowded over it, moistening it with the intoxicating kiss of dawn.

It plunged to the slopes, folding within its wings every buried ambition.

Flocks of birds rushed about, caught between the terror of harm and skittish aversion.

Do not fly, you who flutter across the slopes; for once you truly know the eagle, you will not take wing.

Debility stripped its talons bare, and the gales of destiny tore at its shoulders.

The dignity that still hovers over it is but a tattered remnant from the abyss of ancient days.

The eagle stood famished, writhing over a scattered carcass upon the sands.

While stunted, starved vultures pushed it aside with soft claws and short wings.

Then a tremor of mad pride surged through it, and it shook with the shiver of one freezing.

It moved on, dragging across the dusty horizon the ruins of a hollowed skeleton.

And when it reached the depths and crossed the furthest reach of conjecture from the core of the ether.

A fierce scream rang out from it, scorching the horizon with its blinding intensity.

It plummeted as a corpse upon the majestic peak, right into the bosom of its forsaken nest.

O eagle, shall I return as you have returned, or have the lowlands put my soul to death?