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Long before words
that formed a song,
There were little birds that sing the songs of sorrow.
Long before sounds that formed music of joys and springs,
There were little birds that dance to the sounds of that ring.

Underneath the eyes of heaven,
Flew the wings of winds.
All in a different capacity of swings.
Arrayed with different colors of spring.
Flap your wings young winds
Gather again to sing.

Across the turbulent sea, down to the peaceful shores of the ocean's bed,
They see the hand that stirs her head, leaving it clean and overfed.

They fly above the walkers,
Who are blessed with their own forest?
A haven from all foes, a rest they all know. Why are they different?
They may never know.

They see the servers come to and fro
They see how flitting their beauty can be to their very soul.
But the day they saw that trouble still lives in paradise they took to their beaks, singing as they please;
A tale man cannot interpret.

For every heaven, there's always a hell.
For every chorus, there's always a solo.
To every voice, there's always a song.

🐦 To every trouble, there's always a hero.
To every tear, there's always a smile.
To every mourning, there's always dancing.
And from every shelf, there's always a book of interest. 🐦

Never forget that no matter how different you tweet, there's not a sound like the ones from your beak.
If there's ever a helper in sight,
Just remember to sing before the flight.

Darkness only wins in the absence of Light. Tears only roll in the shyness of smile. Grief is only friendly to the lonely heart.
Doesn't matter how many you missed
while swinging, what matters is you find the strength to keep singing.

The birds know they will keep winning if they never stop singing.
While some are cooing, many are tweeting, some are quacking, it all adds up to the rhythm.

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I know why birds sing.
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Gwenevierjones Ehimen