As a boy in southern Spain, he was born with a silver wing
It poked through collars and tore jacket sleeves
Always there where folks could see

As a boy in southern Spain, folks would stare at his silver wing
Like his mama’s temper or his father’s crying
He grew accustomed to staring eyes.

His church raised money, and his family sent for a doctor from Algeciras
A fragile woman with trembling hands arrived by train with a single bag

On a gray steel table, the young man laid.
The doctor, she stood over him.
Her hand was trembling. She drew a blade
Down his back, along his wing.
His chest rose with an anguished gasp.
The gauze soaked through. His color left.
Blood pooled down along his back.
His chest fell with his last breath.

The doctor left on the morning train
With butcher’s paper and a single bag.
The grieving family couldn’t afford a grave
For the young man with the silver wing.

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