There is a bird, a bird with red eyes. A bird of great age, a bird very wise. When he is done eating, he goes out and flies. He sits out my window, not up to high. Why does he do it? I do not know why. He has dark black feathers, black as the sky. Looking so dead, so dead inside. He reminds me of myself, for so am I.
He comes late at night and leaves in the morning. The sight of his feather eases my mourning. He sits there so still, just looking inside. His red eyes so pure, always so wide. How I wish so much I could be outside. How I would like to be at the seaside. And when he leaves, I let out a cry. Why did I have to be locked, just left to die?