I rise, I fall, I swirl, I sail,
Over land, over water, over homes;
Plaything of the winds I be -
I go where the current bids me...
Till at last trapped in a tree,
I flutter pinned to a twig;
I can hear the breeze whistle
As it rushes through my tatters,
And that gentle, creaking sound
As the rends expand...
And then some boys discover me,
take me down, mend me, string me,
But dreams taped together fly no more...
Can I protest aloud
If they choose to string a newer kite?