A little sparrow
Brown and bright in all her bearings,
Dreamed!
She dreamed of golden lands,
Of silver sparkling sweet waters,
Forever swaying tresses of wind
Of trees staying young and blithe!
And searching for the door,
She gadded too, too far!
Poor sparrow! She is lost!
Fighting to find her way back home!
Homecoming of the onerous dusk,
And night too will return soon to—
The dozing and snoring hay fields,
Where broken husk is the only watchdog!
And poor, cold sparrow,
Is still despairingly lost!
Her bleak screeches are too feeble
To knock the lone errant doors;
And tall walls, they utterly resent
Her plight out of her miserable fall!
Poor, forlorn sparrow!
With pinions grazed and chafed,
Mumbling in a sort of plunged into haze,
“How I wish this cruel night to pass;
I so long for a beautiful morrow,
Growing in the back of my home!”
Poor, tired sparrow!
Implores the cool night breeze then,
To be lulled to sleep in her sad arms!
Breeze obliges out of sheer concern.
And sparrow is put to one long nap!
Poor, dreamless sparrow!
Abandoned by her untrue dreams,
Too deep in a slumber, never saw,
Her ERSTWHILE home again!
Sparrow, so poor, cold, frightened? Stop seeking, stop searching for your "home" which all the time surrounds you.
ReplyDeleteHome is where you ARE, little bird. And home is here or there, anywhere...everywhere."Home" will never be far away.
Whoever I've known or loved
has gone from "home", we are
separated by nought
but single thought.
Am thinking of a poor bird...
.
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