The Resplendent Quetzal

In emerald veils and ruby flame,

Above the clouds, the Quetzal came—

A sovereign bird in sacred flight,

Cloaked in dawn’s transcendent light.

It did not hunt, it did not hoard,

Nor spoke with tongue of sharpened sword;

Its feathers shone with peace and grace,

As if it flew from Heaven’s face.

O man, who stumbles on the ground,

With restless heart and burdens bound,

Look skyward where the Quetzals soar—

For you were made for something more.

Your soul was carved from cosmic gold,

With dreams too vast to weigh or hold,

Yet here you lie in dust and pride,

With truths forgotten, love denied.

You once were kind, a gentle flame,

A shelter carved from wind and name.

Your smile could lift the failing day,

Your words could light the weary way.

But now your tongue is dipped in spite,

You cloak your fears, yet curse the night.

You build and burn with selfish art—

Yet never once tend to the heart.

The Quetzal sings without a claim,

Not seeking glory, gold, or fame.

It does not boast, it does not bleed,

It has no hunger born of greed.

Its wings are prayers, its breath is song—

A whisper where the souls belong.

It lives not long, it loves too true,

And dies if caged, as you would do.

For man was born to walk in light,

To speak with grace, to end the fight.

To give, to serve, to build, to bend—

To lift the stranger, love the friend.

But look what hatred fills your mind—

What justice trampled, truth maligned.

You crush the tender, mock the wise,

And fill the earth with ash and lies.

You wear the mask of gentle man,

Yet cut the roots from which you ran.

You plant your flags, declare your might,

Yet tremble in the hush of night.

You fear the mirror and the truth—

You bury dreams you shaped in youth.

You boast of progress, wars, and gold—

But where's the joy your fathers told?

Remember when your tears would fall

At songs of birds, or children’s call?

Remember when you paused to weep

For strangers hungry, lost, or deep?

Remember how you’d give your bread,

To warm the sick, or raise the dead?

Now where are those sweet hands of care?

They’ve built tall walls and left love bare.

The Quetzal does not trade in pain—

It dances softly through the rain.

It perches on the sacred tree,

Its spirit clothed in purity.

A crownless king of highland air,

A whisper robed in mystic prayer.

It knows no hate, no cruel design—

Yet every step it takes is divine.

O man, return! The hour is late—

Undo the locks you forged with hate.

Be slow to wrath, be swift to peace,

Let selfish striving gently cease.

Find joy in giving, pride in grace,

And wear compassion on your face.

Speak not to win, but speak to heal—

And learn again what hearts can feel.

The world is vast, yet you are small—

But still you shape the rise and fall.

Each word you cast, each act you weave—

Can curse the soil or bless the seed.

Why build a tower if it stands

On bloodied backs and broken hands?

What wealth is there in gold-stacked rooms

If love is swept with dust and brooms?

The Quetzal glows not by the blade,

Nor counts the coins the tyrants made.

It lives in song, in breeze, in vine—

A temple feathered by design.

And though it dies in shackled air,

Its death is protest, deep and rare.

For life without the sky and tree

Is life denied its right to be.

So be like that resplendent bird—

Let love in you be deeply stirred.

Fly not with wings that tear and bind,

But with the wind that frees mankind.

Be tender where the world is hard,

Be justice where the gates are barred.

Hold beauty not in mirrored glass,

But in the hearts you help to pass.

A man is not what tongue may claim,

Nor painted titles, nor carved name.

A man is how he speaks and stands

When holding weak and weary hands.

A man is grace beneath the rage,

A light when storms around him wage.

He walks with hope, with soul intact—

And leaves behind a loveful act.

The Quetzal’s tale is not of might,

But beauty born from inner light.

It sings for those who’ve lost their song,

It leads the restless back where they belong.

So look within, and find again

The child you buried in your den.

Unfold your wings, unchain your soul—

And let your shattered spirit whole.

You do not need to rule or reign—

To wear a crown of tears and pain.

You only need to walk with grace,

And bring some joy to one small place.

To feed the bird, to help the tree,

To be the man you used to be.

Not perfect, no—but tried and true,

A man the stars could point to.

And if you fall, then rise once more—

Like Quetzals lifted by wind’s roar.

Each dawn’s a chance, each breath a gift,

To love, to heal, to dream, to lift.

Don’t wait for kings or gods to come—

The change begins in only one.

Let kindness be your battle cry,

And hope the banner raised up high.

So fly, O soul, as Quetzal flies—

Beyond the dust, beyond the lies.

Let truth be more than words you keep—

But actions sown where sorrows sleep.

For beauty lives where hearts forgive,

And man is made by how he lives.

So rise, and let your being tell—

That man, like bird, was made to dwell

Not in the cages built by pride,

But in the wind, by love, and wide.