One of stone, one of bone,
Yet both gulls seem to fly.
To the ground, one is bound,
The other to the sky.
He is strong, his life long
For he is made of stone.
But to rise to the skies
He needs weak flesh and bone.
Although bold, his are cold,
His wings, they cannot fly.
Thus he’s bound to the ground
He’ll never reach the sky.
Like a dream, it must seem
To this gull made of stone,
What great things are the wings
God made of flesh and bone.
Fragile things are our wings,
Yet, when they are unfurled,
We confound mortal ground
And rise above the world.
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