We shackle wings to broken backs 'neath the shattered sky.
There are times to live without reason
There are times we musn't ask why
Some have wings of feathers that are cliches and fluttering
While others have wings of leather vestigial and painful and stuttering.
They baths must trudge down broken roads
One of cobble. One of gold
At the end of each there is brightness
One is fire, and one, heaven's light and there's no way to tel which is Paradise and which is Hell