A spring time traveler preening his wing
rests in a gilded cage for all to see. He twitters and chirps a simple, timid song.
And I wonder to myself, did he long for the day he would eventually be free,
if here he sat and continued to sing.
Because what did he really have to sing about? Surely not the bars blocking his wing. Just out of the splintered pane, the world sits free for all other songbirds to hop, soar, and see. But this antique villa – with its long frescoed halls – is no place for nature’s sweetest song.
His keepers said he has a euphoric song, though I have only seen him musing at a distant larch. Just how long had it been since he spread his wings? Tell me your story! We could make them see! And finally he regales me on what it means to be free:
In the Adige Valley – where the bilberries are free,
and I can rest my head while the other song birds sing – I dream of the Adriatic Sea. Or over Manosque when the morning sun is rising,
and each of its rays heats both my wings. Or Swedish winters, where the days are nights long.
My captors won’t accept that I don’t belong locked away here, singing solemn tunes for free.
Though here I sit, heart too heavy for my weak wings.
They express that my grief is one of their favorite songs,
But it doesn’t matter what words I sing. If no one really listens, what would make them see?
I tell him we both have the world to see, and unlatch his brass gate. For I wished for too long
that someone could unlock me. Go! Fly high and sing!
We were both born to feel this free.
He looks to the valley and hears a distant song. Then, as if he’s been born again, he opens each wing.
Tears brim when I see the thrush flying so free.
Caged for so long, he nearly forgot he had a song.
Though now he can sing of the wind under his wing.
Early demo of the track based on the poem:
Comments