A bird came from an arid land
to rest on my table with a heart forlorn.
I saw it as my duty, a privilege rather,
to extend to the bird a helping hand.
The sunlight caught the bird in its heart and mind,
and spun around the bird a sheathe of light.
The ash-tray on my table,
and the bottle of wine
fell silent. Everything listened intently
to the silent dialogue between the bird and me.
The bird wanted nothing; it needed not
a word of sympathy or pity.
It rested awhile in the serenity
of that morning sun, and the silence that spoke of
something we shared and refused to divulge for a long while.
Birds have prolific histories to tell
of oceans of serenity and the skies in a rage.
to rest on my table with a heart forlorn.
I saw it as my duty, a privilege rather,
to extend to the bird a helping hand.
The sunlight caught the bird in its heart and mind,
and spun around the bird a sheathe of light.
The ash-tray on my table,
and the bottle of wine
fell silent. Everything listened intently
to the silent dialogue between the bird and me.
The bird wanted nothing; it needed not
a word of sympathy or pity.
It rested awhile in the serenity
of that morning sun, and the silence that spoke of
something we shared and refused to divulge for a long while.
Birds have prolific histories to tell
of oceans of serenity and the skies in a rage.
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