When the sun is curtained down by the dying light When the words of evening whisper in stones When consciousness is dimmed by the invisible stars I hear the cry of the birds taken by the wind an echo from the other side a pleading call to look into the darkness so shadows may fall behind and sorrows are hushed by the sounds of their chaos. If only their song is perceived to erase the pain If only their freedom could be given to the beggars ... Cry of the birds The unnoticed voice of civilization only found in the beating of a shared soul.
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