The Little Song

Alexia Quraeshi
Staff Writer

Up an octave, down an octave, a chord and a pause.
A little bird singing without knowledge of laws,
Perched on a Maple tree so high above
I wonder how it feels about beauty or love.

Crescendo, staccato, diminuendo and trill.
The little bird flies without fear or thrill.
Landing on a feeder to gift us with song,
It sings because it knows it belongs.

Legato, allegro, lento and stop.
The little bird watches us go from the backdrop,
Running around without meaning or sense.
It’s wondering why we are so tense.

Forte, piano, tranquillo and silence.
The little bird speaks that we live our lives every instance.
Feeling, thinking, and doing without pretense.
It sings while we feel present living without absence.

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