Member Poem

There once was a dawn,
A dawn where penguins could fly.
They could grasp the very air
At the top of the sky —
Their flight, a skyscraper built on freedom.

Their wings were elegant and huge,
Their flights long and steady.
They were destined to a sky-mapping journey —
That too, not mere,
But a journey to spear the rule over nobody's land.

Even the Arctic was golden, ‘cause
Every dawn, every dusk gleamed —
Their prosperity shined through
Their own feathers
And the resilience shown by their wings.

Their wings weren't merely an organ,
But a bold resemblance of their struggle —
Their journey, their fights, their achievement.
With the flights of a lifetime,
They had once
Forgotten the grief of their past.
They were free.
They were alive.

But like the dawn of a golden day,
There came the dusk of the unwanted.
Massacres occurred and the rivers flowed red.
And they lost their resilience to paper knives.
That’s how penguins lost their once-achieved medal —
To a mere knife of paper
That rules the lives of the whole globe.

So today, as we speak, we can say:
“ONCE THE PENGUINS HAD ANGELIC WINGS.”