The winter's chill seems here to stay
The sound of joy has taken flight
The sun that once shown bright and clear
Has given way to shades of night.
The wounds are deep that pierce the soul
The cooing of the Dove is gone
The empty space that once was filled
No longer hears the blue bird's song.
How can one find the road back home
Where music calls the heart to dance?
When will the birds begin to sing
So Spring is not a game of chance?
1 comment:
Beautiful, Papa! :)
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