The Last Flight

Tell me, if I were a little girl 

selling  matches,

would you buy a few boxes 

from me,

keep me warm with a cup of tea

on your New Year’s Eve?

Or better,

if I were a bird in late autumn,

with two broken wings,

would you take me inside your home,

Care for me and lie to yourself

about how I’ll be able to fly again
someday?

I cannot fly,
yet were I to choose for me,

I’d be the little swallow

of selfless deeds

lying frozen,

in the winter’s coldness,

at the feet of her happy prince.