As he sits there clutching in his fingers grip,
The bird which sings a song so sweet,
It would make even the angels weep,
A grimmace of anger darkens his face,
Why can’t he just fly away?
Scarred and old and ugly, but no!
This isn’t his soul! It’s not what he is meant to be,
He is meant to fly and sing, be praised!
Not grief. In a shell which resembles of a filthy thief,
But oh, what gives,
The bird all crushed,
It’s limbs so still.
He had taken it’s life,
It had been his will.
The bird which sings a song so sweet,
It would make even the angels weep,
A grimmace of anger darkens his face,
Why can’t he just fly away?
Scarred and old and ugly, but no!
This isn’t his soul! It’s not what he is meant to be,
He is meant to fly and sing, be praised!
Not grief. In a shell which resembles of a filthy thief,
But oh, what gives,
The bird all crushed,
It’s limbs so still.
He had taken it’s life,
It had been his will.
( Painting by Ruxandra Popescu, many thanks again for this. )
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