Let me tell you a story. 12 years ago, a young boy was lonely and wanted a friend, but because of money and space issues, his parents couldn't get him a larger pet like a dog or cat. So they offered the boy a small bird, a parakeet, and the boy was overjoyed. The bird was brought home, but soon began to fly around his room. He was overjoyed by its flight, but irritated by its ability to escape him when he wanted to hold it or catch it. So the boy had the parakeets wings clipped. But now the bird could not fly at all, even if he held it above his bed and released, and the boy could not feel the happiness of watching it soar through the air. But soon enough, the boy found a wonderful thing; its wing feathers were ever so slowly growing back. Dropping it over his bed again, he saw the tiny bird beat its wings with all of its might, and glide briefly. He picked it up again, tossing it upwards a little; this time, it flapped and glided along an arc, flapping as hard as it could but still not yet capable of taking flight. Taking it outside, the boy spent hours with this half-clipped bid of his, tossing it upwards in the air at great speed, watching it take off and flap, only to glide down inevitably nearby in the grass, simulating the wonderous flight he loved so much, and yet only for just long enough to spark his wonder; soon, assuredly, the bird would descent, incapable of taking off far on its own, and thus always remain perfectly within the reach of the boy. The boy knew the feathers would be growing back, but he did not know how or when, and nor did the bird. The wings were clipped regularly, and this cycle repeated itself, the boy waiting for that half-clipped period each time where he could go and help his bound bird reach the sky for a moment. It was a brisk Winter day at the start of December when the boy and the bird, both unaware of their own capacity, parted ways for the last time. One good throw and an unexpected surge of strength, and the parakeet flew, and flew, and flew upwards on the momentum of its beating wings, away from the hands of the boy who was so safe in the birds imposed disability. It tweeted in a tall tree nearby as if to say goodbye forever more, and then flew swiftly away; it's wings would never again be clipped, and it's capacity to soar the skies would never depend on the whims of the boy again.
I want them to keep trying to learn English
I want them to never learn English
I know I can't have both forever
I want them to fly on borrowed wind
But please don't fly away from me
