As the road carried on, a bedraggled man approached me.
He tugged at my sleeve and begged I lean in to hear.

The beggar whispered, “Stop whistling, birds that sing all die”

I was taken aghast, and tore from the man to look him in his dimly lit eyes.

“What do you mean,” says I to he, “all birds sing.”

To which his swift reply, “all birds die.”

At last it was clear, why there was no light in his eyes. Not because there was no light within, but because he sat in a shadow, with no light upon him.

“What is the point, “ he droned on, “if over time you’ll just be gone.”

Now there was no pity for him, but a determination. He would see light before I moved forward. I clutched his wrist and forced him to turn to me, forced him out from under the tree, and into the sun.

“Do you look into eyes my man? You truly should.
To see some light would do you good,
But first see where it is made.
Hear it in the laughter of a babe.

See it in the morning sun,
Where the greatest fanfares of gold and purple mark the day has begun.

When the sun has then worked his hardest,
See the prideful farmer pull in harvest.

When the sun fless to sleep the night,
Sitting by the fire, pulling the blankets tight.

When the joyous family sits down to eat,
And long missed beds do sore limbs greet.

His daughter, look to her too, when she slips away under a whisperer’s moon,
To meet her secret love and swoon.

Hear it in peals of song by lowly band.
The quick remarks to them by tavern hand.

Then feel it in the morn again, because a new day is here;
You survived the night, so have no fear.
Now look into the sky, see the sun, but do not fret.
You see? I whistle if nothing more, than because I am not dead yet.