"I am not the nightingale,
Whose voice is sweet like a harp,
Neither am I the crow,
Whose sound you think is sharp.
I am not the swan,
Who elegantly graces her white,
Neither am I the ostrich,
Who tries but always ceases flight.
I am not the penguin,
Who quietly stares from the ground,
Neither am I the hawk,
Whose eyes see all around.
I am not the pegion,
Who delivers your letters without fail,
Neither am the vulture,
Whose reign over the dead does hail.
I do not live in the hottest deserts,
Neither in the grasslands,
Nor in the snow,"
"Then who are you, little bird?"
Asked the listener, impatience he did show.
"I am the sparrow," I replied,
"The bird you see each day,
The bird you walk by every time,
And never turn to even say.
I can't sing like the nightingale,
But my voice is not that hoarse,
I am not pretty like a swan,
But I live on with a certain force.
I can't fly high like the hawk,
But I can touch the clouds,
I can't help you with anything,
But in my own way I am living loud.
I am not on the extreme edge,
Is that why you don't see me?
I live all around you,
But you always cease to be.
I may not be special,
But at least I am here,
And someday when I'm gone you'll see,
That this bird used to always be there."
