We're just birds with broken wings,
Even broken birds can sing,
We heal and fight and struggle more,
Just to get up off the floor.
How unfair is it to be
A broken bird with broken wings?

Do not leave me here,

with warm sun upon my skin,

thrushes echoing in the verdant shade,

and coolest caress of breeze,

they tease!



Nor with begonias ripe

with the late-summer perfume

of your skin and thresh'd-wheat hair,

the scent of you and me

and the love we made.



In blue brilliance above, streaked with white,

I see naught but silvered pools of your eyes,

Gaia herself must be ashamed,

That to all her masterpieces, I have given name,

And it is yours -



Your laughter,

your smile,

your touch,

envelope my every sense,



And as I sit in wonder, I begin

to believe in childhood dreams again.

I have a coffee ground soul,
You drank me bitter, black and all,
Felt the speed coursing through,
My sickness, oh, it made you new.
But now you're through, you're through.

Paper dolls with drawn on faces,
Ripped and torn in many places,
Broken, but was I ever real?
You taught me, taught me how to feel.
But now you're through, you're through.

You gave me strength to live again,
And now you won't let me in.
You sewed the patches on my heart,
But now my dear, I guess we part -

And I'll be just fine,
And I'll be even better,
My hands no longer fettered,
My heart as light as feathers.
And now I'm through,
Oh yes,
I'm through.