“The Bench”

Where the trees hum secrets
A bird sings high with silver throat —
She listens, but it’s a funeral note.

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The world spins fast, no eyes to meet,
Everyone’s chasing their private war,

The city screams in sterile glass,
Governments rot in marble halls,

But still — she breathes, though it stings.
Still — she stays, though sorrow clings.
A bird sings not to be heard,
And she survives, without a word.

~Waso_