Dead Bird

By Anshul Purvia

I found a dead bird in my backyard.

Her wings lay quiet, folded like secrets,

her feathers kissed the earth

as if she never belonged to the sky.

There was no storm, no cry, no warning

just a silence heavy with aim.

She was never meant to perch forever.

She was born with sky stitched into her bones,

with wind resting on her shoulders.

Her flight was not a rebellion,

it was simply breath.

But the world doesn’t forgive a bird

who refuses the cage.

They watched her rise,

and instead of wonder,

they whispered.

Instead of open skies,

they built walls.

They wrapped their fear around her wings

and called it “protection.”

Then when she flew too high,

they called her dangerous.

Their bullets were not made of metal.

They were made of names,

of rules,

of the sharp weight of tradition.

And the sky, once hers,

split open and swallowed her whole.

And when her song went silent,

they gathered like mourners.

They touched her feathers as if they ever cared,

sighed like poets,

cried like saints.

They built shrines

to the very bird they caged,

lit candles for the fire they started.

They’ll say she flew too far.

They’ll say the world was never kind.

But they will not say:

they were the wind that turned to storm.

The ground holds her now,

but the sky remembers.

A thin scar of silence

where her laughter once soared.

And tomorrow,

another bird will rise

fragile, trembling, bright.

The world will smile,

wait,

and aim again.

By Anshul Purvia