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Poetry

The bird

The bird on my window is a friend of mine

He comes and chirps to listen to my voice

In the dark, voluptuous and stifling night

He carries with him a news from home

The grass is fucking green, he always lies

Listening to my answer he groans a while

But he is there to listen to my voice

The houses are shattered, the souls are torn

He knows all that but still, he always lies

On the night, when I try to loose it

He comes chirping the songs of spring

Trying to wake me and keep me alive

But sly is he with his god damn lies

The messenger of hope with a bill fine

But sly is he with his god damn lies

The hope is a disease that takes lives

In the spiteful wait of peaceful times

On the shards of glass I drain my soul

I see myself as a carrier of hope

I may not talk well to the bird

But deep inside I know it all

The bird is my soul wandering the meadows

Returning to my body to get back there

Where there is life hidden under the grass

The graves of my people waiting for peace

The peace will return I say to bird

The bird is happy so am I

The bird sings the song of freedom at last

I rest my head against the shards of glass

Feeling the blood drain out of me

By aamerbasher

Aamir Bashir is a Romance fiction writer. He has been writing for a while. Her Choice to Love is his first book.

One reply on “The bird”

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