A single bird rises from the ashes of a fallen city.
Not a powerful bird,
That flies smoothly on the relentless wind,
But a small tattered bird with an injured wing.
That cries out feebly to its suroundings,
As it begins to fall once again toward the earth.
A child draws up short,
And listens to the cry of despair, seeing the little bird, crumpled and alone.
The child reaches out a grimy, small, hand.
A hand that has been through so much pain, and hardache, and suffering,
And helps the bird up.
Once again, the bird attempts to flap its wings,
As the sun sets on a far from perfect day.
That brief moment where the crimson sun illuminates the landscape, before falling behind the mountains,
The child let a brief smile escape.
Not a powerful bird,
That flies smoothly on the relentless wind,
But a small tattered bird with an injured wing.
That cries out feebly to its suroundings,
As it begins to fall once again toward the earth.
A child draws up short,
And listens to the cry of despair, seeing the little bird, crumpled and alone.
The child reaches out a grimy, small, hand.
A hand that has been through so much pain, and hardache, and suffering,
And helps the bird up.
Once again, the bird attempts to flap its wings,
As the sun sets on a far from perfect day.
That brief moment where the crimson sun illuminates the landscape, before falling behind the mountains,
The child let a brief smile escape.
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