From fallen leaves; On the lively trees, The silent dreams, Before the raising sun, the chirping bird; Made my pleasant days On the fallen trees now, The fallen voice of, esteemed beauty, Of his golden voice, Is now washed away, He is broken for all the happenings; He can barely fly to make me happy, No one looks up to this bird anymore. He is just object because we all have better works, The people are too busy, And controlled by money, To care about the bird, They could not look down, To the broken, sad bird, We have no time to make him feel the warmth nor to sooth him, Things are vanishing away, Without the mesmerising voice, And while they are now happy, we can’t and not ignore, The bird there to die, On the lively trees.
A travel through unfamiliar area