Wings flutter and fly away,
There’s a purpose, a meaning,
And he searches for a way
to make a point out of the life he’s living.
Yet meanings don’t really matter,
We give them air to breathe, as if they’re real,
But our own children make us sadder
because we’re dependent on them to feel.
And he’s beautiful and free,
But his burdens keep him quiet, mute,
And there isn’t a sadder scene to see
than a song-bird with a broken flute.
So I’ll rise with the sun and fly away
But I’ll only search for another day