The Skylark

In the hush of dawn, when the fields are silvered with dew,

A song breaks free, piercing the quiet sky,

The skylark rises, wings trembling with light,

Carrying heaven’s secrets in every trembling cry.

It does not wait for applause nor gaze,

No stage, no curtain, no gilded hall,

Only the open expanse of endless blue,

Where silence itself learns how to fall.

Higher it soars, beyond the reach of hands,

Past the whisper of leaves, the hum of streams,

A living spark in the morning’s breast,

A poet of air, stitching songs into dreams.

What heart could not soften at such a sound,

What sorrow not tremble and begin to fade?

For in that song is a promise untold,

That beauty survives though the world feels frayed.

The skylark knows not the weight of grief,

Nor chains of memory dragging low,

Its hymn is pure, unburdened, bright,

A fountain of joy where all spirits go.

O bird unseen in the dazzling height,

How small we seem as we lift our eyes,

Yet in your flight, we find our prayer,

A reminder that hope never truly dies.

Some say you sing for the dawn alone,

Others for love, or the warmth of May,

Yet I believe your song is for souls

Who wander the earth with dreams astray.

You teach us this: that song is a gift,

Not bound to crown, nor coin, nor fame,

But born of a heart that brims with flame,

And asks no reward but the echo’s name.

Each note you release is a droplet of light,

Falling on minds like rain on stone,

Carving a path where despair once lived,

Teaching the weary they’re not alone.

O Skylark, unseen, yet felt in the marrow,

Your voice is a river the sky lets flow,

And we who are bound to earth below

Learn from your music the way to grow.

Sing then, eternal spirit of flight,

Scatter your hymns through valley and glen,

For though our days are fleeting and frail,

Your song renews the courage of men.

And when the twilight gathers her veil,

And silence returns to the weary land,

The echo of your song will remain,

Written in stars, carved by God’s own hand.