the suff'ring that you bear, it seems too much;
the weather beats against your battered breast.
you ache for just the smallest healing touch,
or at the least your wings could use a rest.
the pain of life, you feel down through your soul,
so much that i can hardly realize.
and as a bird who's wounded and not whole,
you lose some hope and plummet from the skies.
but when you feel your strength is at an end;
you can no longer see your flock ahead.
that's when you'll find beneath you every friend.
not far away - supporting you instead.
'tis not the hunter's bullet, small and round.
our death is loss of hope - and then the ground.
Your comments are greatly appreciated. nandor@wellington.org