I fly over cities and their tiny houses,
Where people stay with their families and spouses,
Though I am not a drone or an aeroplane,
Nor the small bird flying over the narrow lane.
My identity is that of a small red kite,
That hauls over the busy metropolitan site.
I stray no further than my master takes me,
Unlike the birds, crossing the unending sea.

I am called by tailorbirds from their nests of hay,
To join them in their aerial chase and play,
And often pursued by the crows that caw,
To fly to a place, where the winds blow raw.
I reject their requests with a polite and windy ring,
Telling them that my world is confined to a string,
And they rush to give me company in the sky,
In the limited daytime I fly.

I have some lively dreams or goals,
And the urge to fly beyond the electric poles,
To a place where the mountains and the skies do kiss,
And the scenery is filled with unimaginable bliss.
I wish to fly with my friends,
Than compete with kites having colourful patterns and trends.
I would rather be an unnoticed yet independent mouse,
Than an emperor, confined to a tiny house