Whispers of Wings
In golden dawns and dusky eves,
A melody floats on rustling leaves.
Feathered whispers kiss the sky,
A song of hope that dares not die.
Once they soared in endless flight,
A dance of colors bathed in light.
But now their songs grow weak and thin,
Lost in walls of steel and din.
Fields once wild are paved in grey,
Forests vanish, rivers stray.
Yet hands arise, both strong and kind,
To heal the wounds that fate designed.
A mother guards her fragile nest,
A beak pressed gently to her chest.
While weary wings in wetlands rest,
On shores where reeds in silence crest.
Men and women, young and old,
A vow of love in hands they hold.
To plant, to shield, to guide, to mend,
So sky and song may never end.
O let them rise, let rivers run,
Let fledglings chase the morning sun.
For every chirp, for every wing,
Shall echo bright—the songs we sing.