Tiny midnight bird
                         alone in the sky,
                           resting after it's morning fly.
                       It begins to sing
                               a beautiful cry;
                                     preaching sigh.
                              Again,
                      ­ midnight bird,
                       flies past us,
                   flies past the sky,
                 to nest in the trees.
                    We wonder just why
                      he still cries
                        and flies
                          alone,
                       every day,
               upon every night,
             is he in pain,
          does he feel such fright?
             He, a beutiful creature,
                without a care,
              goes everywhere
                      even
                still alone
                   he sits,
                  wihtout a plan?
                      Possibly he has many,
                  he too could look upon-
                              look apon us below.
               He might think
          opposite thought,
                           Together,
                               why such?
                                   Why not alone?
                 Happier we would be
                 if we were like he.