She perches all day in the crook of a dead tree,
Her feathers barely repelling the beads of rain
Dripping relentlessly from a grey sky.
She grooms listlessly, her sharp yellow beak
Shoveling the feathers into their accustomed rows.
She is sick my eagle,
Has fed on poisoned offal so her mind wanders.
Her once sharp eye is dimmed and blank.
She sees nothing.
She hears nothing.
The worm in her stomach churns amid the debris
On which she has fed.

Let my eagle soar as once she did.
Let the sun warm her skin
And the blue sky welcome her into its heights.
Let the arrows she holds in her claws
Strike the unjust with fire.
Free her from those chains which entangle her.
Let her wings spread themselves on the lofty air
And when she stoops for prey
Let the victim's face tremble at her power.

But my eagle is sick.
Her white feathers grubby and ungroomed
As the rain drips from her feathers.
Still, somewhere, there must be a spark.
She will be herself again,
Cast off the golden chains which fix her to the ground
When liberty and truth shine forth to all the world.
When will she remember her greatness?
When will she be herself again?