The Bird Of Freedom

The Bird Of Freedom

The bird of freedom mates and dies,

No song to echo through the skies.

Feathers drift where silence creeps,

A quiet grave where no one weeps.

Its wings once cut the morning air,

A flash of hope, a fleeting glare.

Now roots entwine the brittle bone,

And winds forget what once was known.

No cry remains, no final flight,

Just empty branches lost to night.

A shadow fades, a breath departs,

And freedom ends where silence starts.