I listened to the small bird sing,

Her voice frail and shaking.

I listened to the small bird sing,

Her hands quiet against her chest.

 

Her wings were clipped.

Her beak was broken.

She sang until the song was done.

She sang until her throat was numb.

 

I listened to the small bird sing,

The future of man inside her head.

I listened to the small bird sing,

Trapped in her cage of youth.

 

The room was dark.

The light was out.

 

Her face though once lively,

Had dimmed at the thought,

Her song was too quiet,

Yet, I’d heard every word.

 

In a blackened room,

I sat still by my lonesome.

And listened to the small bird sing.