A poet in his garden sat,
And sang a sad lament:
And, from the sadness in his heart,
His song was truly meant.
The robin stopped the song he sang
And looked down from above.
This human being’s soulful voice
Drowned out his song of love.
The blackbird too looked down on him
And thought about his song
Which seemed so full of dolefulness.
To him it seemed so wrong.
'Perhaps,' the sparrow sadly said:
'He knows more things than we.
He thinks of things we cannot know
And things we’ll never see.'
And this was right: the poet’s thoughts
Were of the years ahead
When humans, with their selfish ways,
Caused wars and buried dead.
He thought of how we little care
For our lovely planet’s health,
But pollute the very air we breathe,
And just to bring us wealth.
He thought of winds whose violence
Can tear down homes and trees
And rain that pours with ceaselessness
That nothing can appease.
The poet’s song rose loud and clear,
And sadness filled the air,
And those who heard him sing his song,
Felt his sadness and despair.
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