Songs Of Our Own

There was a time when I heard the birds sing; every morning. All to often we fall into that old habit and the world stops spinning; the birds stop chirping. A mad attempt to control; an obsession with cessation. The tune of human life is a sad symphony. When one asks “Who am I?”, the birds have dropped from the orchestra. Life becomes one note, and the musicians play it over and again. Naturally there is anger, naturally there is frustration, but remember:

…the heart has it’s seasons, it’s evenings and songs of it’s own.

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