It was too late when I found you
Gasping and shivering; the cool hand of death was near
Your blood ran down my fingers, stained my flesh
And I felt the desperation of your small, new heart
Then you were still.
I covered you with flowers before covering you with dirt
Before covering you with wine
In the tradition of somebody’s ancestors I buried your bones
And would that you sprout up from the ground
With a different sort of wing.