The Murder Of The Song Bird

The Murder Of The Song Bird

The morning broke without its usual call,

No silver note to lift the early air.

Branches held their breath in pale surprise,

As if the day itself had lost a word.

A feather lay where music used to live,

Soft proof of something taken far too soon.

The sky looked down and did not interfere,

Clouds passing on like careless witnesses.

Once, every dawn was stitched with gentle sound,

A voice that asked for nothing in return.

It sang because the world was meant to hear,

And hearing made the living feel alive.

Now silence nests where hope had learned to sing,

A hollow ring inside the waiting trees.

The wind still moves, yet carries nothing sweet,

Just echoes of a promise torn away.

Who raised a hand against so small a heart,

Who feared the truth that beauty dares to bring.

For songbirds sing of things we try to hide,

Of light that finds us even when we turn.

The murder was not only flesh and bone,

It struck at joy, and left the sound to bleed.

A lesson written quiet in the leaves,

That love is fragile, and the world is not.

Yet somewhere deep beneath the broken hush,

A note survives, too stubborn to be slain.

For every songbird lost to careless hands,

Another waits, and listens, learning hope.