We’re so restrained.

Stuck to the ground,

unable to fly.

The little sparrow, albeit its size,

is better than us.

For it spreads its tiny wings,

faces the skies,

flies.

How I wish I was a sparrow.

Never mind its fragility.

Never mind the near impossibility

of escaping curved talons

or piercing claws.

It can fly

towards the searing sun

or frigid moon.

That is what counts.

The beauty of a sparrow.

Beautiful in its own way.

A single brown speck

against the galaxies above