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The Singers

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Birdsong flitting through the air,
The brush of feathers borne upon the silenced wind,
Sleepy chirps and dim replies,
As twilight deepens in the skies,
Red velvet softens to inky silk,
And still the bronzed beak calls,
Twitters to the open falls,
Cascades of moonlight pouring down,
Release the beauty of the sound,
As stars watch proud and deep,
Distant, removed, silent as they burn.
Now the song is cold, unsung,
It slumbers ‘till the singers come,
Awake to day dawned new and bright,
As all the shadows of the night
Are chased by feathered songs in flight.





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