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Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet

Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet

 

When your heart does beat

For the love you meet

Give her your golden seat

She’ll be at your feet

 

Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet

Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet

 

Night night birdie.

‘Papa, what can I be when I grow up?’

‘Anything you want, my son. But please do not be a preacher, or a lawyer, or a politician.’

‘Why Papa?’

‘Because I don’t want you to think you’re better than others, and I don’t want you to lie, and I don’t want you to have enemies.’

‘So you don’t like preachers, or lawyers, or politicians.’

‘I like them,  I just think they talk too much.’

‘So what can I be?’

‘You can be a creator and you will help people with your work. You can be a teacher and you will teach people something new. You can be an artist and you will make people happy with your art.’

‘So creators and teachers and artists are better than preachers, and lawyers and politicians?’

‘No, I didn’t say they’re better. But their work is more helpful, and they talk less.’

‘Papa, I’m confused.’

‘Ok, just remember this.  Work, not words, keeps life going.’

 It was a cold, cold day when she left us, she took all the light with her, she took all the music with her, she took all the laughter with her,  and we were left cold on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we had to save our drowned hearts, we had to swim against the pressing waters, we had to pull our drenched bodies out, and we remained gasping for breath on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we looked for her in our hearts, we looked for her in our dreams, we looked for her in our souls.  And we found her there, and there, and there.

And that is where she now lives – in us, always, forever.