A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
The greatest achievement was at first and for a time, a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn, the bird waits in the egg, and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs.
Dreams are the seedlings of realities.
I don’t ask for the meaning of the song of a bird or the rising of the sun on a misty morning.
There they are, and they are beautiful.
When I was twelve, I went hunting with my father and we shot a bird. He was laying there and something struck me. Why do we call this fun to kill this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke this morning.
‘Life is sacred,’ cried Man,
‘A great gift from God,
And, as such, is the ultimate treasure,’
‘Many times have I heard,
That proclaimed,’ said the bird,
‘Tell me why then does Man kill for Pleasure?’
By my mum.