Stolen on the wings of the canary,
Soaring within the clouds
And bouncing within hidden canopies,
Is a song known only to the sun
And certain flowers.
Trapped, the song pleads
In early morning
And in the dusk of shadows:
“Hear me sing, O lonely forest!”
Yet, sadly, she found there was nobody to serenade.
Frantic, the canary ruffled her feathers,
Searching for just one ear;
One soul willing to listen to her precious
Color held captive.
You see, it was yellow that stole the canary,
For its song had long since seduced her,
Dyeing the white of her genesis golden
After months spent dancing
In tune to swaying southern honeysuckle,
Or simply chasing the setting sun—
Soaking up every sweet note
Of yellow’s orchestra.
Defeated, the canary found a secluded tree
Alone atop a barren mountain,
And sang one final time:
“Hear me sing, O lonely earth,
For I have taken that which is yours and have made it mine!”
She spread her petite wings,
Each feather a ray of sunlight.
“Hear me sing, for you, O mighty mother,
Are the only one willing to listen…”
Then, the canary cried,
And with each tear dropped
Individual notes in shades of yellow,
As her feathers bled, revealing her true self:
A pristine white,
Unblemished by the envy of color,
Finding she was finally satisfied
With her own song.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 11:33 AM UTC
Stolen on the wings of the canary,
Soaring within the clouds
And bouncing within hidden canopies,
Is a song known only to the sun
And certain flowers.
Trapped, the song pleads
In early morning
And in the dusk of shadows:
“Hear me sing, O lonely forest!”
Yet, sadly, she found there was nobody to serenade.
Frantic, the canary ruffled her feathers,
Searching for just one ear;
One soul willing to listen to her precious
Color held captive.
You see, it was yellow that stole the canary,
For its song had long since seduced her,
Dyeing the white of her genesis golden
After months spent dancing
In tune to swaying southern honeysuckle,
Or simply chasing the setting sun—
Soaking up every sweet note
Of yellow’s orchestra.
Defeated, the canary found a secluded tree
Alone atop a barren mountain,
And sang one final time:
“Hear me sing, O lonely earth,
For I have taken that which is yours and have made it mine!”
She spread her petite wings,
Each feather a ray of sunlight.
“Hear me sing, for you, O mighty mother,
Are the only one willing to listen…”
Then, the canary cried,
And with each tear dropped
Individual notes in shades of yellow,
As her feathers bled, revealing her true self:
A pristine white,
Unblemished by the envy of color,
Finding she was finally satisfied
With her own song.
