In the ward soaked with disinfectant in my previous life, I couldn't peck open the caps of medicine bottles. I could only nuzzle your cold fingertips with my beak and imitate the siren of an ambulance, but I couldn't wake up the dawn.
When the heartbeat monitor turns into a cold straight line, the feathers seep into the warmth of your last teardrop.
Although I wear human skin in this life, I still have the vibrating voice of a parrot in my throat.
Now I can unscrew all the medicine bottles, read the text on all the medicine boxes, and even use my "wings" to bring you the dawn of hope.
They say reincarnation erases the imprint of the wings.
But my soul is always wrapped in that layer of white fluff, counting in every breath: I exchange the pain of parting for a reunion in this world, and I will crush the rainbow into pieces and weave it into every tomorrow of yours.
Intention: Make a promise in the next life in the morning light.