Mr. President, leave the birds to sing

The sweet melodies of the summer;
The trees have bloomed
And the clouds are pregnant
The cows, the cane rats, all expecting:
That their kraals and holes shall soon be full of the solemn cries of their little ones

Leave the birds to sing
And their grief of the haunting winter fade away,
The coming of a new summer is a celebration of the turmoil of their fallen comrades
Whose songs are worth more than their innocent souls
They are gone, but their sturdy, patchy voices will ever ado
For these songs are the remains of their ever innocent ancestors

The mocking birds sing
But not songs of mockery;
They poise the truth and brandish the suppression,
They strangulate the forgery,
And garnish the pain enshrined there within;
For the songs are their only holy verses
So Mr. President leave the birds to sing.

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