Does the softness of sand calm the raging tide?

Do the grass and buds, staring, convince the storm to yield?


What holds those electric hands reaching high into the sky?

What keeps the rain battering, shattering on the still earth?


Why does the caged bird sing?


Do its shrill cries pierce with knowledge of freedom?

Or does it find stillness in its prison?

Is it content to be a caged bird, and remain?


The caged bird in me sings,

Only when peering through slits of hollow light

Filtering into its cage

The caged bird sings because it is still a bird

And what do birds do but sing?



It sings for freedom, for loss

For the sun to roll across cotton-drops and blue once more

It sings for pain, for a hand to grasp wet soil and pull itself free

For the hollow light drifting across space to be whole once more

It sings whilst in its cage, it sings despite its cage, it sings because of its cage.


The bars become the song

The bars become the song


Your bars become your song

5 thoughts on “Songs

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