A Song

A song

From what I heard about dying birds,
My spirit will become a song.
Some random boy who’s thirteen years old,
Will sing it to a girl whose hands are warm.

The girl would blush and he would take her hands,
Which are so warm, and look into her eyes,
And see his future, and his tongue would dry,
And words would crumble: “Lets…” –

He’d say, “Let’s… run away and hide,
From world which crushes love with wit,
From mediocrity of picket dirty fences,
From duty to betray, to grow, to submit…”

And she’d say “Yes, we’ll run, we’ll hide, we’ll win,
But first I’d need from you a promise –
I want two kids, two cars, white picket fence,
And yearly vacation to Bahamas”

A boy, who’s only thirteen years old,
Would close his eyes, imagine life without her,
He’d kiss her hands; he’ll slowly make it home,
And tell his folks – I want to be a lawyer.