The death of the blue bird.

T'was a bird,
with feathers made out of the wood
and dipped in bright light blue.
It flew like the wind
in the silky skies made of thread so thin;
It sang the prettiest songs
mostly about the hamlets with the best corns.

And all the other birds will sing,
'O' darling, wouldn't you tell us more,
for you are the only lore,
like a boat with thousand oars.
Show us the way out of this sore,
where the corns have no core.'

And this bird will puff it's chest,
and not tell the rest.
For itself was a bird of vain,
that thought it could fly and wind the train,
and about itself a saint.

So, one day it stood upon a tree,
thought and sang about lilies.
When a crow of fiend
asked if it could really fly like the wind.
And then the blue bird swanked,
'Talk no balderdash,
you charcoal trash,
Look closely now,
And i will show you how.'

And so it flew up and up through the clouds,
with its wings wide and taut,
correcting the crow's doubt.
It did a double somersault
and glided straight down
into the busy road of a hectic town.
It was not looking where it was going
and already too late to realize
that t'was a black huge machine
of four wheels and an engine,
the harbinger of doom,
which seemed to have suddenly loomed
over the fate of the bird
with feathers made of wood
and dipped in bright light blue.