The bird flys free,
And the wind lets him be.
To stop such pretty,
That would be a pity.

This air blows fresh,
Our sun warms my wing mesh.
But the moon rises,
With his cold dark prize.

My moon brings sorrow,
For pain hides in the shadow.
To walk towards death,
Is a fool’s wise tale.

The morning sun sings,
But only to an empty thing.
The hopes of birds
Are only empty words.