If I don't hear the voice of the songbird,
Before receiving a boon of hope,
My soul starts to ask:
When to feel? How to cope?
I miss the song of the sweet songbird.
His sounds sweeten that which is sour.
The melodies find the most broken of flowers
And cast a cloud of rain which helps them
Smile and sing again.
The songs of flowers share the nature of my sweet songbird.
He sings to them in the way that a mother bear guides her cubs into a barrow
Or in the way that the trees greet each other:
Each note finds its significance not only in what once was, but what will always be.
Today, I hear the songbird, yet he sings solemnly.
Though I know his heart still beats and his wings still soar through the sky,
I still wonder
He only sings by himself, and hopes others hear his call.
It's as if he imagines himself imaginary,
So that no one notices his pain at all.