As with all things
That object you hold
The song that you sing
Are connected in a web of meaning.

The 300 year-old tree was alive
When the doe lost her fawn to the hunter
When your ancestors spoke their native tongue
When the songbirds were blissfully unaware of their mortal song.
Unheard it was then, and now it is a legend.

And just as the sun rose
For one last songbird song
So will it set on you
For we know of our mortality all along.