Why not fly

Dora couldn't sing of the leaves 

that embraced its home like a cloak.
Or of the songs that the trees wrote on the earth as the leaves shed
Nor could it sing of the pink petal secrets ,

whispered to it by the clouds as it soared through the sky
Or how like moon, bright and freckled, it looked, 

when rays of moonlight shone on its outstretched wings every night.

Dora didn't sing of the ashes in the ashtray beside it,
The grief amidst which has not evaporated.
Or of the delicate verisimilitude of the laughter

that filled the room we both cravened in.
If only it sang of the beautiful steel fortress, 

or of the bars that stood between both of us.
But it didn't even sing of how something in its eyes always looked back at mine.

Dora never sang;
Dora never chirped;
Dora, was quiet.

And I keep looking at the bars, hoping that my glare will transform those lines into horizon and there will one day rise the sun.

But Dora stays quiet,

Because there is really nothing to say.

None of us has tried to rattle the cages we are captive in.

Neither the one that keeps it from the world,
Nor the one that has kept me from setting it free.