The Songbird
Even when alone,
Forgotten,
Keeps on singing,
His beautiful
Music
Filling the air
With color,
He does this
Not to forget,
Not for self
Serving glory,
Or to simply
Fill the void,
For the Songbird
Is a poet, and it
Is not in his
Nature to
Despise the world,
But to love it
Even if the songs
Be melancholy,
They still are
Of this life
And the Songbird
Lives on
Always singing
Among the trees
And in the grassy
Meadows
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem