Poetry

The Birds Sing Art In day of sun, and night of dust, they raise their voices, and they must defy the need for food and lust. The birds sing art, at dawn and dusk. No food, no love, no sex, no home. No need, no purpose to exist. No future, no security. No tasks to tick upon a list. In structures made with beaks and wood, they forsook food, and cursed their blood. Today in fields of death, and mud, the birds made song, because they could.