I never wonder why the birds will sing,
for I would lift my voice like they if flight
were to my nature as to theirs, would bring
unblushing shouts from out my breast with might;
I long to flutter as that sparrow there,
or soar as eagles over mountains glide,
to freely swoop and plummet in the air,
to live on wind, or on an updraft ride.
And yet, behold your man is not a bird,
for his are struggles of the dusty earth.
When all the caterwaul of fowl are heard,
he feels within his soul a little dearth.
As yet I only gaze into the sky,
longing one day to take up wing and fly.
Tale Told 