Poetry

Who knew the little bird would grow wings
And fly over the legendary kings
Now the flying bird in the air swings
His sparkling coloured wings.
 
Who knew the little bird would learn to sing
Songs of beautiful tunes and rhymes
His had been lamenting ballads
Cursing Maryland plantations
But see how the singing bird sings
Of books, suits and wines.
 
Who knew the little bird would learn to feel
The sickness, tiredness and coldness
His had been cracking the rocks
With unquestionable willingness.
 
And who knew the little bird would fear not to perch
Upon every tall tree tops after long search
For which it’s little nest would beautifully hang
It, had been in the dark quiet cave
But see how its young ones come singing
From New York trimmed vegetation.