There once was a dawn, A dawn where penguins could fly. They could grasp the very air At the top of the sky — Their flight, a skyscraper built on freedom. Their wings were elegant and huge, Their flights long and steady. They were destined to a sky-mapping journey — That too, not mere, But a journey to spear the rule over nobody's land. Even the Arctic was golden, ‘cause Every dawn, every dusk gleamed — Their prosperity shined through Their own feathers And the resilience shown by their wings. Their wings weren't merely an organ, But a bold resemblance of their struggle — Their journey, their fights, their achievement. With the flights of a lifetime, They had once Forgotten the grief of their past. They were free. They were alive. But like the dawn of a golden day, There came the dusk of the unwanted. Massacres occurred and the rivers flowed red. And they lost their resilience to paper knives. That’s how penguins lost their once-achieved medal — To a mere knife of paper That rules the lives of the whole globe. So today, as we speak, we can say: “ONCE THE PENGUINS HAD ANGELIC WINGS.”