deepundergroundpoetry.com
As a Cloud Covers the Sun
The sweetly singing lark is unaware
the shadow of the hawk will swooping come
to chill the bright and happy summer air
and blot with death the yellow of the sun.
Each note it sings could be the last of all
that issues from its joyful silver throat,
then silence like a shroud would thickly fall
and end the echoes of that final note.
But while the lark's alive it sings its songs
and pays no heed to what's outside the now.
With melodies alone the lark belongs
and sing it will, till death does not allow.
As we should sing our song out loud and clear,
because today perhaps that hawk is near.
🦅
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