to me the scent of freedom always is
pond in a meadow; a laughing bird to one that sings
in higher notes to please, to be that care-free,
to be the audience of
that slow melody, meshed, among others with
a myth, with winds that made its skin, the rivers and their blood,
their kin — the colours of
where wings would glide.
and if I be placed with sharpest claws
or clumsy feet, the scents of freedom shall
give choice — to give in to pride, or self-defeat,
— A. P.