Birds have stories too...

 

Can you imagine the pain, the gripping face

and the screeching cry of a one year old

Burning alive?

 

What would have been the little mind frantically searching?

His mother? Her hug? Or the fresh air from the fields?

He would have died of exhaustion

Trying to push the pain away from him

Tired, he slept in peace with his little sister as

life left them.

 

Now, he won’t know

the meaning of his skin tone

Or the creed, to which he belongs

And he wont live to realize

the betrayal of his own race.

He is expelled for ever.

 

Cuckoos are born of such tiny souls,

Who no more believe in a home, a land.

They scatter like the first rain and

Don’t stop to see their seeds sprout

Among us, the vulgar of the species.

 

Next time you hear a cuckoo sing,

close your eyes and listen

to the cluttered rhythm

of tiny steps

fading.

 

 

 

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