That thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson had wrote. But that thing has been plucked alive, its wings mutilated but it still breathes, a heavy, heaving breath.
it´s eyes pour out blood which flows and mixes with the sorrow.
Sorrow is everywhere. Cries, shouts, hands raised to the sky
That thing with feathers is weeping because its wings have been cut.
it´s imprisonned and spins round in circles, muddied, covered in dust, oozing pain and hate
That thing with feathers will fly again
it will soar through the sky
it will trod through the tunnels
it will be free