A plain white paper airplane
tossed. . .

To unseen heights,
yes,
that there plane,

to sail in skies
so blue and broad and bright. . .

And who can say
where it will go,
and in what vein?. . .

And whatever, wherever
change will come
when its wings,
sharp creased,
are lively flapped. . .

Yes, what ripples in the world
will come of that?

Perhaps our simple, little plane
will hap,
in good time, to cross,
the stately presence
of the legendary albatross. . .

And, if so,
will that result in peace?

Or will it come to pass in such a way,
whether or not we see,

that it would have
been much better,
if that plain white sheet
of our brave plane
(which, with plain pen,
could have possibly
become a letter),
had been indefinitely detained,
or wandered wide along the ground,
and somewhere there,
got merely lost?