There's a bird
In the sky.
Look at him fly.
Why?
With all the trouble
In this place,
I hesitate
To turn my face.
When fleeting pleasure
Lasts so short a time,
I cannot help
But weep and whine.
What is the purpose
Of our life?
Of this pain,
Of this strife?
Will it matter ?
If I live?
If I die?
If I give?
If I cry?
Will it matter?
If I stop my pace
And give this bird
My solemn face.