We waited for the evening bird to sing
Away our weary thoughts, while holding hands.
The bird was late, we thought it lingering
Nearby, but silent, as it might have other plans.
Some shots were heard of a hunting man’s gun
Who must have aimed at our singing bird
As nothing happened and the night went on
Without its lovely music to be heard.
Then, there the singing started in the tree
When morning came along. We were content.
So lovely was his song for you and me.
He gave his best a while and then he went.
I found the bird with open eyes but dead
That morning, in cold rain and greyish light.
A bullet had destroyed its lovely head.
Its last song had been ours that very night.
The hunter died within a week from then.
No one could understand his sudden death.
In days he had become a weak old man
who spit out feathers taking his last breath.