The Sparrow's Fiends.

And the world was simply not the branch,
he was sitting on,
with creepers and it's roses,
winding up the sorrow;

He waited for the Silvertongue,
sitting by the ocean strung,
simply waved his wing alive,
choked up on his empty lungs;

He looked at the streams of light,
and showered sins of burning cries,
locked with a simple man,
singing with the little boy;

He watched the breeze go down to earth,
and lift its spell on unending mirth,
hopped like the bird he was,
and wobbled to the sloppy wall;

He simply lay tomorrow,
with a shimmering swallow ,
stored away his cope,
with little much left for hope.

'Sparrow of the world', they said,
We'll find him, with another one,
But only along the far,far away,
one which we know not, are very close to.