If a bird sings,
To an empty wood
Is his song still meaningful?
Is his sound still beautiful?
Took the peace,
And destroyed his home.
Yet he eagerly starts again.
Watch as he hops, collecting sticks
Carefully examining for any sign of damage or misprint.
No time for second thought
Everything must be the same.
For he longed to play his song.
Without the trees to hear his call,
He folds his knees and waits patiently.
This bird, now turned to stone.
Long after the sun brought new growth.
His windpipe had crumbled; his being long gone.
Forever lost is the beauty of his call.
Instead borne is the beauty of his stone.
Life will go on, but things will never be how they once were.