The mechanical birds with broken wings,
Rust together with lofty dreams...
That they will yet fly again,
In a cloudless sky, in which to tend.
But for now,
They are parked like cars,
Lined up neatly,
In a helicopter graveyard.
Sale signs do adorn,
Many of their windows...
But even just for parts,
Freedom again, they will never know.
So in this place, you'll find no gravestones,
Just...
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