THE BIRDS WITH WINGS OF HIGH DREAMS

Why the Mornings are dull and dry,

Why the day just seems to be passing by,

Leading a life full of misery and pain

No shelter from the sun beating down,

No place to hide in rain,

I see the suffering endured by them,

I hear the pitiful begs for clemency

I can see ashes of the innocent billowing from a smokestack

We,on the other hand have all the materialistic pleasures,

People whom we can call our own,memories that we can treasure.

If only,all of us could make a difference in some way,

Make them feel that the sky has blue too,

And not every shade is Grey.

As it is very rightly said and I quote,

""Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all,"