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Poem

For he has no mother to provide the food,
a poor little bird pecks at drifting cloud and eats the pieces 
that bubbles up in the cloud as a mist to fill his empty stomach.

Fail to withstand midsummer’s burning heat
though the little bird’s wings were grown to cover 
the darkening nightly air,
alas, he couldn’t fly in the sky because his wings 
were grown from the piece of cloud, the only food he ever fed on,
and therefore, fell on the ground crying through the night agonizing. 

The little bird, though, has eyes, he couldn’t see a thing 
because he was blinded from the burning sunbeam 
that pierced through his eyes. 
He, now, is lying on the ground weeping 
through the night to drive his misery away 
oh, however, breathless.

The little bird once joyfully played with his siblings,
and pecking one another to show off their strength,
now, became a pebble by the riverside shore
because all his siblings though flew away
he failed to keep his small space, 

the space was, rather than his own choice, 
but was confined by the force, and though, he is now lying 
on the ground he really never left the nest, and therefore, 
he always an immature little bird.

For legend says that the Phoenix gathers ashes
from his remains that burnt in the furious fire
and soars in air to find his lost home, 

does the breathless little bird’s heart beat? 
or because lifelessness is another form of a life, 
the little bird sobs in the night from the piles of stones
flooded by the moonlight at the lifeless riverside shore.

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