FLOWING WINDS

We speak of the Übermensch
as though we were the master-being,
the crown upon a story
we ourselves have written.

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But what if the animals
understand more than we do,
the birds carry more answers
than we ever dared to ask?

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I imagine
an eagle reading the flowing winds
like a symphony of infinite listening,
and the sky
not as a hazy watercolour
but a pulsing canvas,
with the universe as its ear.

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I imagine
the nightingale’s song
spun like a thread,
strung
between the trees and the stars.

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Who knows—
perhaps then
we would finally sing
a humbler note;

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our vision of the enemy
becoming a relic of a fading age,
placed in a museum of human error
between prayer-stall, shackles,
and the sword,

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and the most terrible mushroom of all,
which should never have been allowed
to bloom.