Ego's perspective

 The broken winged wild bird is Trying for one last song, again. Sitting alone on a woody carcass left behind by an axe Preening her unbroken wing. And an arduous search for notes Between thin staves of pain. Cursed with the fate to sing it alone, No mate or flock to sing it along.   Children who drank her warmth Have long gone, pecking and pricking. As the night flower blooms in hopes of seeing the twilight. With light, songs and wind in her heart, not for anyone, The broken winged wild bird is Breathing slowly one last song, again.   To hear this song that shines in the dark Trees, rain and night chill stood mourning, around While the shadows, rivers and weeds kept the rhythm aground. Even if no one is here, there are flowers and stars around to hear it, Because the song is cheery as honey, kind as dreams And tears to bear it.   The pain of her wing; so dry,   Melts away in her one last song As she embrace the vast sky   In her fl