What lies above the tops of trees?
The field in which the bluejay flies.
Far-soaring through invisible seas
With white-foam clouds; We call the skies.
Can birds deduce the here and there?
From breezy-field to where it lies?
For when it flies up in the air,
Oh, does it know it's in the skies?
Birds care not for the 'next day'
They bend not to anxiety's sway
Be like a bird and you too may
Be happy wherever you lay.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
What lies above the tops of trees?
The field in which the bluejay flies.
Far-soaring through invisible seas
With white-foam clouds; We call the skies.
Can birds deduce the here and there?
From breezy-field to where it lies?
For when it flies up in the air,
Oh, does it know it's in the skies?
Birds care not for the 'next day'
They bend not to anxiety's sway
Be like a bird and you too may
Be happy wherever you lay.
Inspired by 'The Anxieties We Invent Ourselves' by Soren Kierkegaard
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