
We as birds flew high, and there were many.
We flew ivincible but unknowing of what lay ahead.
But the hunter came and shot you all down.
One by oneuntil I was the only one flying.
Or mabye it was I who was shot down
but unable to see myself falling
while you kept flying.
But there was no need to stop to help.
It was inevitable that the ugly duckling die
to make the flock more beautiful.
And as I flutter my last on the ground
I look up to the sky as you fly away.
Longing.
And wishing that I could have been a better bird.
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