In den at dusk, he lays his wings, against the icy stone - and in his dreams, a solemn song, the Gryphon doth intone.
But lo, the dawn with argent crest awakens slumbered flame; The feathers shake, the breast takes air, And he recalls his name.
The wind takes hold, the sky unseams; the sun becomes his lyre - through cloud and cry, he cleaves the light, in fury vast with fire.
Through skies above, though soaring strong, that song begins to say: “Gryphon, now you’ve soared enough. It’s time to fly away.”
Daniel Zarb-Cousin (1999-2026)