well, he’s aching to be heard
but who will sing his lost song
that he holds as he flies round the world
well, the grass, she will sway for him
the trees, they will whisper his heart
the water will dance at his touch,
but who will give him voice?
Oh, he picks up the lonely, fallen leaf
to toss it around like dead butterfly wings
that fell from a creature that wishes to help
but has nothing to offer him now.
the lonely splash of red that
falls gently on the breeze,
he sighs, and it flutters away
it moves me, somehow-
that simplest act, the mourning wind and the apologetic leaf-
so I tell him I know how he feels.
The trees may murmur, trying to speak,
but me, I can sing!
Inhale, learn, listen to his thoughts, then
free them! release them!
let them ring out, sweet and piercing
and say what he never could.