Enduring

A whistle through the willows, capped by the trees.
Peace by the brook side, babbling reeds.
Swift through the pines, swift through the oak.
Lift it up higher and higher,
Into the unknown.
The earth listened intently, and the wind sang,
It sang as it passed invisibly by the eyes,
Of two friends walking beneath oaks, walking beneath the pines.

"Last night I had a dream." it sang,
"And in that dream I had friend.
And with this friend I did not know
Where I began and she did end. And not a leaf filtered, and not a feather fluttered.
And not a bird was lifted from the trees
For all the songs it could utter.
Nor could it catch my breath in it's wings.

"But then I awoke, and found myself alone.
Once again single in the hope I had known.
But the breeze began to stir,
And the birds caught my sigh,
And we rose above the reaches into the sky.
I carried her song a message to send,
And I could not see where she began I did end."

As the breeze passed on by my friend turned to me,
"I wonder , but to which end does the bird sing.
Frail in body, all feather and fluff,
To break in the beat of a wing yet care enough
To sing such a tune with an earthly clairvoyant ring.
But to what end does she sing?"

The song remains the same, always the same.
Beautiful and pure uttered in it's simplest form.
Like the bright blessed day and the night forlorn.
And although once uttered dies away
Their children, and their children repeat it again.
As if with every generation the idea was born anew,
And the same in the end.

Who is to say which is better,
The bird with a flit and a fliter,
Or the song born again and again,
Never to stop, never to end?
Which burden though to have your burden be wrong.
For I am the bird, my friend,
And you are the song.