When favorable wind comes, eagles soar.
They fight not the current nor the sun,
Flee from neither cloud nor gun,
They let the wind run beneath their wings like water.
They play not fodder to the geese of the gander or wolf of the pack,
They exist as they are.

Unless they have a trap on their wing.
Unless there beak is clipped by some nefarious thing.
Unless something casts their talons in lead,
they will soar until captured or dead.
They will survive until their freedom withers to ash.

The eagle is like the seasons.
It will come and go as it pleases,
but never can it be tamed.