A Prayer from the Departed to the Living

Do not nest too long in sorrow.

The branches you cling to were never meant

to cage the sky within you.

 

We have shed our feathers of flesh,

but the wind still remembers our names.

When you feel it on your face,

that is us, urging you to lift again.

 

Take flight while you can.

Taste the dawn, even when it burns your eyes.

Sing, not to be heard, but to feel alive

in the marrow of your being.

 

Your heart was not made for the museum of regret.

It was made to pulse, to spill over,

to scatter seeds of laughter and mercy.

 

So live.

Not as those who wait for heaven,

but as those who build it

with every breath of this wild, brief flight.

 

And when the evening calls you home,

we will meet you

in the hush between wingbeats,

where love never fell to earth,

only learned how to soar.