Does the little bird not
know sorrow?
It drifts alone in the open air,
untouched by either
blue of the ocean
or the sky above;
untouched by the bloodshed stains
of the earth below.
Does the little bird not
know sorrow?
Like the tears
of unborn children,
dead before birth with
their question burning
forever, "Why?"
Does the little bird not
know sorrow?
Perched on a tree,
watching man fall
before its eyes.
Is there no compassion
from that little bird
towards humanity?
Does the little bird not
feel sorrow?
Like the tears
of millions of hungry children,
cold without a home.
Their voice muted,
by the wars of greed;
their deaths in vain,
blood on our hands.
Does the little bird not
know sorrow, like we do?
Unable to fly
so freely like the bird,
lost in our own ways
of life;
the endless greed,
the pointless bloodshed,
millions of lies.
Does the little bird not
know sorrow?
Always flying so freely,
freedom on its wings;
untouched by either
blue of the ocean
or the sky above;
untouched by the bloodshed stains
of the earth below.
Does it feel sorrow?
That little bird,
who greets the morning
with a song;
always cheerful,
always chirping.
What does the little bird feel?
Is it sorrow?
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