Skyborne

Above the din where cities groan,

Beyond the clouds where dreams are blown,

There flies a thought the winds have known—

A Peregrine of flame and bone.

Fast as fate, and fierce as flame,

It dives with grace, not thirst for fame.

Speed is soul, and speed is name,

It lives not slow, nor dies the same.

It sees the world through eyes of fire,

Where slower hearts may rest, retire,

It strikes where stars and wings conspire—

A feathered bolt, a lone sapphire.

Its wings don’t flap—they cut through sky,

It doesn’t ask the when or why.

It doesn’t stop to mourn or cry,

But sings in silence, soaring high.

The dove once whispered, “Why so fast?”

The falcon smiled, “The moments pass.”

“And those who stay too long, too last,

Forget how short the shadows cast.”

The owl, with wisdom dark and deep,

Mocked falcon’s urge to never sleep.

But falcon said, “While others keep,

I hunt the truth you dream in sleep.”

The raven laughed, in ink and shade,

“Your life’s a spark that cannot stay.”

But falcon dove where truth is made—

Not born to nest, but blaze away.

The sparrows danced in morning dew,

They sang of love, so light, so new.

But falcon watched the broader view—

Where joy is sharp, and sorrow true.

The eagle roared, a regal king,

And spread his pride on mighty wing.

Yet falcon flew beyond his ring,

Where crowns dissolve, and silence sings.

It loved the sky, yet kissed the storm,

It played with fate in perfect form.

It bore no hate, nor ever swarmed—

Just chased the light where dreams are born.

It flirted once with hummingbird,

Whose heart was song, whose soul was word.

But love, though pure, cannot be stirred,

When one is wind, and one prefers herd.

It once believed the sky could bend,

That speed could pause, and time could mend.

But every friend became a trend,

And every rival just pretend.

A fox once asked, “You never rest?”

Falcon replied, “To rest is test—

Of courage lost inside the nest—

I’d rather fall while flying best.”

It’s not just speed that makes it high,

But purpose, drawn like bow to sky.

Its truth is sharp; its dreams won’t lie—

It chases dawn while others die.

Yet even it forgets sometimes,

That joy can hide in silent chimes.

That love is found in slower climbs,

And peace is sung in softer rhymes.

It paused once—just to feel the breeze,

To watch the rivers kiss the trees.

To whisper soft, “Oh let me freeze—

And bathe in mortal melodies.”

But time, the serpent, hissed below—

“You wait, you break, you lose your glow.”

So falcon rose with heart in tow,

And left the earth with parting woe.

What truth it taught is not in speed,

But why we fly, and what we need.

For some, it’s sky; for some, the seed—

For falcon, flight itself is creed.

So let it dive, let it become—

The burning star, the beating drum.

The silence swift, the thundering hum—

A soul too fast to be struck dumb.

Let others walk the path of stone,

Let others dine and call it home.

The falcon—wild, and so alone—

Finds peace where fast is flesh and bone.

O heart, be swift, and know your aim—

Not all who fly do so for fame.

Some seek the wind, and not the name—

The falcon’s path is not a game.

So sing for it, the skyborne flame,

That burns alone, yet none can tame.

In love, in war, in loss, in claim—

It flies beyond all praise or shame.