Somewhere I heard a bird, in a meadow softly sing
distant, melancholy; a secret stolen dream.
It didn’t take me long, to arrive beneath her throne
the dream it kept her waiting so here she made her home.
“Why, little bird,” I asked, “do you soulfully sing?
If a dream is what you really want, go! Take wing!
Are you afraid of flying, or reaching a distant shore?
Why do you keep stagnant; when you’re capable of so much more?”
Somehow the little bird, it stopped and turned its eyes towards me
wrestled, worn and weary; without words I heard her speak.
“Is it so unfamiliar, to stay against all hope?
What is more enduring: to leave or remain home?”
I guess I hadn’t wisdom for the bird’s questioning.
Who was I to really say giving up was the better thing?
“But do you believe its right, hiding here alone?”
Ah, but she seemed to say, if you stay then I won’t be