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The Caged Bird Sings
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
Walking bare feet through the warm mud,
worms of slush squeezing between toes,
spring breezes quickening the blood,
forgiving and forgetting woes.
Stretching out like a promised land,
aspiration gloriously beams.
Running through the fingers like sand,
time we had studiously planned.
The privileged heritage streams,
but a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
Freedom is but a dream perceived,
not appreciate’ when in grasp.
Accolades our right when received,
the sweat of our brow and breaths rasp.
Of injustices a defender,
a tome wasting many a ream.
Respect, honour should engender,
but to enmity surrender.
Life lived to the very extreme,
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
Opportunity’s there for all;
talents are bestowed on many.
Listen to the instinctive call.
Regrets? We did not hear any.
Pioneering endeavours offered,
but thru ignorance let it slide.
Optimize chances proffered:
careful analysis ordered.
One wrong decision, woe betide,
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
Hamstrung by accident of birth,
but blessed with inner resolve
and an occasion for mirth:
laughter all melancholy solve.
Glimpsing freedom from oppression,
idyllic occasion rising.
His music, only obsession.
Talent, his only possession.
The changes in lives it did bring,
so he opens his throat to sing.
Inspired by: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
In honour of the many street musicians to be found in South Africa. From my new collection: African Scapbook
Poetry form: Glosa
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