Behind the tarnished gilt-barred cage,

The little songbird sang of love as yet unpaged,

Whistling tunes from the songbook of life, 

Cutting through the chilled dawn as with a knife.

 

He sang of despair, but sang also of hope.

He sang with depth and with far-reaching scope.

He shrilled to the heavens for love to come,

Though he willed his trills, the sky remained mum.

 

Staring at the streets below and the clouds above,

He opened his heart to any promise of love,

But his days continued alone, whatever the season,

Summer warmth ended, allowing the freeze in.

 

He sang of despair, but sang also of hope.

He sang with depth and with far-reaching scope

He shrilled to the heavens for love to come,

Though he willed his trills, the sky remained mum.

 

Then one morning, the songbird's song was done.

Lying down his head, his life’s end begun.

Grasping for happiness, dreams tightly clung

Though the clamour of love’s bells only silently rung. 

 

We sing of despair, but sing also of hope.

We sing with depth and with far-reaching scope.

We live with the fear that love will exclude.

And that we’ll be alone when our life concludes.