And so
the little
bird continues
to sing.
She minds
no more
the chains
and bars
embracing her.
Her wings
have already
grown stiff.
Though born
with wings,
Flight is
nothing but
a dream.
The cage
keeping her,
though clad
in gold
and messages
of freedom,
of joy,
of the
eternal sky,
It was
all just
a lie.
She was
not free.
The cage
is never
her home.
It is
her prison.
But still
the little
bird continues
to live.
What else
could she
do but
just sing.
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