A Falcon's Death

It glided amidst the war, Having a glance at a falling tsar, It was a muse of the lost poets, An inspiration for lost artists... It believed in no god, Evil rested on its feathers, Laughing at its own mediocrity, Facing death lied the curiosity... Behold! The falcon is struck, By a lightening unknown, It once again glided amidst the winds, To fall on the mire with burnt wings, Death awaits in its eyes, To the falcon it was never a surprise, A tear crawled on the tip of its beak, As it emptied its emptiness with that leak... Lo! The falcon is dying, With agony and proud, it's smiling, The Death weighed its soul, To pull its soul out, it seeks a hole, The words in the poet's diary weeped, The colors in the artist's art leaped, Lo! The falcon is dead, The tear on the beak wept, Death walked off on its soul's carpet, For the falcon forever slept.