On a Catalina cliff I now stand,
hundreds of leagues from the nearest safe land.
Eighteen years have gone by since I was born,
and my life, like cold crags, is bleak, forlorn.

Yet, hope crackles on a distant outcrop—
the birth of a balded eagle. Don’t stop,
brave soul! But keep, pushing to-wards the light.
How He—mass of pink flesh, sinew—can fight.

At last! He breaks free from its hard prison,
on His toothpick legs, He is arisen.
Shaking, quivering. He stretches His wings,
the Wild Western Wind making His ears ring.

Eyes locked, he is ready for the first flight.
He stands—fearless—on the edge, despite the wind’s might.
He leaps, he soars! Suddenly the winds stop dead.
He falls down into the foamy abyss like lead.

Two steps forward and twenty stories down,
I walk, for the war is now over.
I lost, not an ounce of glory found.
The orchestra is silenced forever.