It's the ticking of clock
That echoes through the house
And it's the singing of the birds
That echoes through the night.
Hand in hand they sound together
But one fades away and the other
Stays and stays.
How transient the bird seems, for it
Flits to and fro, sometimes coming back
And sometimes never here;
And yet the steady clock ticks on and on,
Steady, consistent, no variation or shadow of change.
The clock echoes through an empty house,
Leaving a mark cold and quite unfeeling,
But the bird, oh the bird-
It flits into the sunset, lights on wires
And sings its song over again for me.
Day after day it lives,
Flying where it has never been before,
And God takes note of a sparrow,
While a clock is but a tool that does not live.
So what's my point, you ask?
Well, I was just thinking, it's
So much better to live alive,
Actually sing and fly and breathe,
Than be a stiff echo that never changes,
Never feels, never hears, never sees.
So what, may I ask, are you?
I choose to be a bird.
I choose to live alive, and free.
I choose to sing.
