The Bird Sings

If I were a bird, would you clip my wings then cage me away with pretty things? And, if my wings were to be clipped why not just burry me within a crypt, For a cage is too small for a master of sky, I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly. For to have wings that cannot soar, then why not nail me to the floor? Tonight I shall make my final swan song knowing I have been locked away so long. For a cage is too small for a master of sky, I was meant so kiss the sun, soar, and fly. So still the caged bird, she sings without her sky, without wings. Sometimes laments, sometimes sighs, sometimes she whistles her own reprise. For a cage is too small for a master of sky I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly. So then curious is it, the caged thing who finds she has the heart to sing? Because it would seem a great strain to be caged seems twisted and profane, for a cage is too small for a master of sky, I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly. When asked, why do you sing, bird? The answer is a simple word, hope, for escape from behind these bars that keep me caged from the stars. For a cage is too small for a master of sky, I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly. Birds should have no master, no kings and love cannot be clipping wings. But now it seems I must live confined, in this hand crafted cage of your design, but a cage is too small for a master of sky I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly. So must I wait for these wings to heal and relearn how the wind may feel. If I must be caged, still my heart sings of the day I can again use my wings.