A forest carpeted by moss,
With trees of silver tin,
The small red bird sings of loss,
Loss of his feathered kin.
A shadow blue flirts with the breeze,
The hungered bows stoop from the trees,
And not one to see
This curious place
But the little red bird
And his mournful face.
With trees of silver tin,
The small red bird sings of loss,
Loss of his feathered kin.
A shadow blue flirts with the breeze,
The hungered bows stoop from the trees,
And not one to see
This curious place
But the little red bird
And his mournful face.
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