Eleven birds in bamboo bush
Sing songs of hope and glory.
Every colour has a push.
Every singer has a story.
Red knows the keynote about life:
"I sing 'bout nothing else but love.
But do I sing it for my wife?
Or for that dove that coos above?"
Orange sings about the sun,
The source of light, of everything.
She whistles: "Nothing is more fun
Than singing sunrises in spring."
Yellow's yell is made of gold,
So high in value and in weight,
So full of glitter, but so cold,
So cause of envy, greed and hate.
Green thinks it's cardinal to sing
About the wood, the field, the hills,
For all the good they're offering,
For all the food, the shield, the thrills.
Cyan chants about the sea
And 'bout the sky, so clear and bright,
Which, like a mirror, make us see
Millions of sparkles every night.
Blue cries a sob and plays the blues,
With sorrow, misery and tear,
A grief of sadness and abuse,
Which makes his burden light to bear.
Violet whistles: "Music's my duty.
The price of «nice» is sacrifice.
My voice, I sanctify to beauty.
This bamboo bush is Paradise."
Each bird of colour has a soul,
A voice, a spine, a formula,
A reason to exist, a role
In Mother Nature's orchestra.
[Editor's Note: I'm critical about this poet, Ronaldo7, but here I fully agree with the bloke: discrimination — raising a voice against other races, genders, religions, sexuality, intelligence, age or social classes — is a sign of stupidity that can't be tolerated and must be ignored. The rainbow of colour is beautiful. The beast is the animal that refuses to see it.]
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Precious Poetry
PoetryFrom PROBLEM to POEM in 7 steps the Why, Where, When, What, Who, How & Wow of writing poetry Ai Ni and Ronaldo made this book to help poor people in Haiti, to build a school and teach them the art of a happy life. A warning upfront from the editor:...
