The birdsong could be heard from Miles away. The beautiful, majestic sound encapsulated all those who were privileged enough to hear such a euphonic sound; a sound that told the story of joy, love and hope; a sound that relieved woe, hate and regret.
Onlookers would freeze in their steps, smiling to each other, as the fascinating sound captured their attention. They stood mesmerised by the sound, lost in their deep preconscious; the beautiful music releasing pheromones as the unprepared audience relived nostalgic memories: Memories with family members who were sadly no more; Memories of a time that was; Memories made in the present that young lovers' promised they would keep forever.
One member of the audience even remarked that the musical perpetrator was incredibly gifted, whilst members of the growing crowd enthusiastically nodded. They imagined a beautiful, tiny, fragile songbird who sang happily to its owners. They imagined a demure songbird who danced elegantly and fluttered happily.
That it was beautiful.
Free.
Loved.
If only they knew.
If only the amazed spectators that just a mile away from where they stood in their mass delegation, stood a tiny alleyway.
Deserted.
Disgusting.
Scattered were torn, rotten black bin liners; used needles from the locals who needed a quick fix; rats moving around without a care in the world; without the fear of a human invader forcing them away from their temporary home. A stench of dried urine and weed drifted amongst the area, hiding the little creature who sang morosely in a tiny birdcage that so desperately needed help.
You see, in the high corner of the alleyway stood a small, wooden cage with a bolted door and a flapping hostage, who relentlessly looked to escape: looking for an exit, searching for freedom; begging for attention, begging for help.
Its beautiful song was calling for anyone to release it, yet no one could hear its plight. For we only hear what we want to hear and see what we want to see- knowledge is a burden and ignorance is bliss.
Yet, eventually, things slowly started to change.
Eventually, the birdsong began to change- it became more desperate; more shrill; more impatient, so instead of helping, people stopped listening. They cursed the animal for its cacophonic sound and prayed for the sound to stop, not realising that the poor fledgling was pleading with them, begging them, beseeching them.
Yet nobody heard. Or maybe nobody wanted to hear.
Until eventually the songs stopped altogether.
YOU ARE READING
A Compelling Tale of the Songbird Who Became a Phoenix.
General FictionHave you ever felt tapped? Like you're stuck, frozen in time, wishing that someone will finally see you. That's the way that she felt every single day. Eventually, she decided to take life into her her hands and free herself from her own figurative...
