war kills the song bird
that dares to sing
as the light of dawn
spills blood across the cratered rubble;
what else can a bird do
in the face of bullets and bombs
but take its voice to flight
and bring a small, quiet beauty
over this dominant death
blazing like a sun,
a bright target for every eye.
what can a song bird do but die;
die singing for a different day to come
that the music might echo through the dark
and irresistible, draw peace into the open.

i hear the music of the dead
now flightless and silent,
now louder and soaring higher than before
inviting my voice to join
and in chorus drown out the hate
that stills the human heart.