Birds

No sooner has the worm been fed,

Then time is ticking in thy head.

Must rush off to catch another,

Feed the little sisters and brother.

Always hungry,

Constantly growing.

Soon they'll fledge,

And they'll be going.

Why dost thou do this quick dance of life?

Why labor through rain, predators,

Fatigue and strife?

Thou dost not know any more than me,

Why you labor and are not free.

But when they grow and raise their young,

The song of joy is on thy tongue.

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