Whine Of The Free Bird
This is a very sentimental essay about my vain waiting for the spring.
The spring, only coming now, will pour with the snow soon, will happily ring through the fresh April air, but this noisy march will pass over me: it won't touch me - the string, which's always tense yet always silent.
I have frightened my scrappy dreams to they've taken wings; I won't chase them in vain - I couldn't capture them back to me.
I'm a bird, I'm not caged, but I don't need to rise up and ask the sun to warm me: I look into his eyes and see there my reflection. I'm seized by it, and I have nothing to help me - just through this mocking mirror I stay invisible to him. On nights I break my shallow sleep with the cry I cast to him, then I awake but hear my only whisper. I just flash before his eyes in stupid lines of my letters: I feel this spoilt mind never opens to me. So he hurts me, he leaves me to be a lonely sunbeam, which runs to nowhere along the sad black waters, where I ever drown myself with a load of my offence.
I'm a bird, I'm not caged, but I don't want to feel my wings: I take a chirrup for an idle noise, I never try to stack my happiness of shreds. But nearly you I can see this happiness - how it dares me, and you cover it behind your shoulders to spite me.
Then I make my hands dropped down while my heart shrinks; I know, if I could to tear your cold, I must smash the mirror you show me, I must leap through beyond there. But what's the way to do it?
I have frightened my scrappy dreams to they've taken wings; I won't chase them in vain - I couldn't capture them back to me.
I'm a bird, I'm not caged, but I don't need to rise up and ask the sun to warm me: I look into his eyes and see there my reflection. I'm seized by it, and I have nothing to help me - just through this mocking mirror I stay invisible to him. On nights I break my shallow sleep with the cry I cast to him, then I awake but hear my only whisper. I just flash before his eyes in stupid lines of my letters: I feel this spoilt mind never opens to me. So he hurts me, he leaves me to be a lonely sunbeam, which runs to nowhere along the sad black waters, where I ever drown myself with a load of my offence.
I'm a bird, I'm not caged, but I don't want to feel my wings: I take a chirrup for an idle noise, I never try to stack my happiness of shreds. But nearly you I can see this happiness - how it dares me, and you cover it behind your shoulders to spite me.
Then I make my hands dropped down while my heart shrinks; I know, if I could to tear your cold, I must smash the mirror you show me, I must leap through beyond there. But what's the way to do it?
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