Equipped wingspan

The rippled wings,

Of a blood-stained monarch

With a non-existent trill

Seasonal wings turn to a grey loft of lead,

As birds do, they fly

Sky commemorates a darkened ash,

Sun condemned by darkened sky

Insensitive to the light of an isolated wingspan

Imagine fire in autumn only orange leaves cradle earth

Metamorphosis of a euphoric duration

Two to six weeks of an ending journey

The rise of the wings turns to an eternity

Equipped with a swift ensemble of cries

It dies on a burning globe

Crescent on a Eucalyptus tree

It moulds to the fitting fate

Whilst precariously dried fields run beige.

Will we ever go back to a time

When monarchs filed a setting sky of spring?