A white feather bird,
Sitting on my grill,
Under the quiet moon,
As the world stands still.
It tilts its head,
Eyes dark yet bright,
Speaking in silence,
In the hush of the night.
"Why are you sad?"
It asks with a sigh,
"Are you afraid?"
As stars fill the sky.
"What do you want?"
Its voice lingers near,
"Is it difficult?"
Soft, yet so clear.
I stare at the bird,
Yet words do not flow,
For how do I answer,
What I barely know?
It is just me who is not answering anything and it's the white feather bird who knows everything.