The Gilded Cage

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The little bird watches
from a gilded cage.
Singing
songs of sunny days,
falling leaves,
pouring rain.
A cold wind blows the treetops,
and the little bird watches.
Her wings open,
ready,
but never does the wind lift her up.
And she sings on.
The gilded cage hangs in the window.
I listen
to the little bird’s song,
and my heart hurts.
Through the window
I watch,
in my mind
an endless summer.
The cold wind blows the treetops.
I raise my hands
to the windowglass,
though never does the wind lift me up.
And storm clouds gather.
No longer does the little bird sing.
And my summer sun
gives way
to an autumn of regret.

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