The Little Birds

The little birds, brittle birds, they come to my windowsill.
Begging for food with a sharp, loud shrill.
Their feathers ruffled, their beaks sore and worn.
Scavenging for food from dawn until morn.
With pity I look upon their small plight.
I give them rye to strengthen their flight.
Every morn they return bigger, stronger.
Each time I feed them a little longer.
Joyfully, I watch their color mature.
As they feast on the meal I procured.
No longer do they hunt or search for food.
For a bounty of rye they have accrued.
Through ravages of time, my rye runs out.
Left with nothing in a dismal drought.
In earnest I call to the little birds.
My plea for help, indiscernible words.
I scavenge for food on the barren moor.
My frame withered, my bones worn and sore.
The birds look at me and shake their small heads.
They cannot provide the rye for my bread.
In the morn I come to the window weak.
Aloof, they raise the tilt of their beaks.
The vibrant hues of their wings fade to grey.
The facade that gave me joy, falls away.
Though the little birds still have plenty yet,
I am left with nothing but regret.

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