Paper plane blues

We are birds without the wings
squatting inside a box so crimson
gazing at the eyeshot so dark.
How would it be
if all of us write a poem:
Two and half million little verses
of tiny buds that would the lilies bloom
of colourful butterfly wings
of the winter's woes
of lights and azure heaven?

The places are so peaceful,
The people are only too brutal,
Was it deliberate
We came into this box
The apteral birds
Then without the roots
Now without the stems?

How would it be if we take
The two and half million little sheets
and turn them into a big paper aeroplane
Hop on it, recite each poem again
Singing and humming
In a child's artlessness
and soar across the skies
and fly away to the lowly earth
and land, land on ornamented trees?

But where do we get the papers,
and how do we express the words around
this mindless chirping,
when we are caged inside
this coop of commode?