How I feel for the poor things
Unable to fly or spread their wings
Each day with the same view
Sad and lonely nothing to do.

To  the bird, the world is that room
Confined to the cage, that's his tomb
For life without freedom is nothing at all
No matter whether big or small.

Longing to fly on the breeze
Soaring high over the trees
Seeing new places everyday
Flying and twirling in glorious play.

Never knowing freedom of the bird that fly's
Sitting in the cage on his perch 'till he dies,
How can a bird that's born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing like a stuffed toy.

© Hazel