Dead or Alive

What makes the bird sing,

Playfully like an April breeze,

Living freely,

Fluttering about in the Great Blue Sky.

Not standing the Dead of winter,

A barren land,

Void of color.

The bird sees not the sparkling

Beauty of the snow,

He only feels the chilling cold.

“Cannot I be as bird,

Fly with wings?”,

“No” Said I,

“Not equal is the exchange thou wishest make”.

He shrugged and gazed,

Not realizing the boasted Beauty before him.