Photo & Words/ Ingela
There, thousands of migratory birds in our world, all singing their unique songs, which can either tenderly touch us, or intimidate. Some have wings, heavy with sorrow, red with blood, where the tips turn painfully against the temple, hard against the already wounded body. They left their safe tree, and its last leaves, to get to know new budding greenery. Migrating birds deserve to be met with love and respect, so their hearts can heal and wings grow back. Fly again my beautiful bird: find the place where you are already free, with wings soft as velvet.
The stairs are mossy and railings have cracked from old age. Many weeds are wandering, and the flowers here have been sleeping in the garden for a long time. On an empty spot sits an memory, soft and warm, and I return with an open mind to our meeting that day. Quietly your voice grows extinct, though your tired feet would follow the lyre and singing again. You were ready to follow the light and die for eternity each day, or tomorrow. It felt so empty without you; the sun's light went down and then radiated stronger again. The last step on the stairs belongs to us, so here I want to sit for a moment and think of you, my dearest friend.