Today, the birds aren’t singing,

They have no reason to rejoice,

Their lips are sealed,

Their heads are bowed,

Another one is laid to rest.


But for them, there is never rest,

Their beautiful souls weighed down by the world they trusted,

Their feet cemented by blood and sweat,

Their feathers matted by dirt and grime,

They live where no one sees them.


When one dies, never to be seen again,

They mourn for each other,

But no one else seems to see,

All are blind to the suffering, blind to their demise,

But the birds see it all.


They see us pass by,

Tossing a crumb or two,

Stepping over, walking around,

Only to be addressed by a few,

While we are blind, they see it all.


In the cold, they shiver,

In the summer, they burn,

In the rain, they dampen,

We are numb to their suffering,

But the birds, they feel it all.


If we were the birds,

Feet tied to the ground,

Would we see?

Would we feel?

Would we care?


By Joy Cierrea


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