You were born with wings,
etched in the quiet script of stars,
a secret geometry hidden in your breath.
Yet you crawl, earthbound,
tethered to the hum of certainty,
your shadow longing for skies unseen.
The ground is soft, familiar,
its contours comforting your hesitation.
You trace its curves,
carving a labyrinth of borrowed steps,
while the winds above whisper your name
in languages too vast for words.
What is it you fear,
clinging to the soil that cradles your weight?
Is it the fall, or the flight?
The silence of clouds, or their symphony?
Your wings are not brittle,
they are woven from the memory of eternity,
of moments before you knew your form.
She waits for you—
the Immutable Past,
her stillness calling you to rise.
He watches,
the Unknowable Future,
a horizon trembling with possibility.
You, the History Maker,
stand at the precipice,
your choices sculpting the infinite.
To crawl is to rehearse what you already know,
to measure the edges of expectation.
But flight—
flight demands the surrender of the known,
a plunge into the luminous chaos of becoming.
To rise is to let the earth release you,
to let the wind thread itself
through your feathers of thought.
Rise, then,
not as a wanderer lost,
but as one who remembers
the secret you carried into this life.
The wings were always yours—
not borrowed, not granted,
but stitched into the fabric of your being,
a quiet covenant with the cosmos.
Above, the sky does not wait;
it is patient, yet unyielding,
its vastness unbroken by your delay.
The stars do not mourn your hesitation—
they shimmer as if to remind you
that the heavens are not a promise,
but a birthplace you have forgotten.
Fly now.
Let the air speak its truth to your bones,
let the horizon widen with each beat.
You were born with wings;
to crawl is to forget,
to soar is to remember.