On Free Wings

There is a little golden bird
Perched on a tree, precariously.
It is as yet trapped in its shell;
The little thing yearns to be free.

It chirps out loud, hoping for help,
But nobody can hear.
Are they there and yet not helping
Or is really nobody near?

It knocks with its golden head and beak.
It lets out a feeble trill.
Battered and bruised as it is
It tries harder still.

Suddenly, it sits silently
And all it sees is black.
It thinks and thinks and thinks some more
And finally finds a crack.

One last jolt was all it took,
One last push, but slight.
In streamed all that surreal light
And nothing to stop its flight.

The little golden bird was finally free.
It flapped its wings with glee.
It has yet to learn to fly,
But now at least it was free.

Wrote this some time back, 13th August to be precise. Inspiration when commanded. Well, at least my class teacher was happy.