The Bird in My Room
Squeaking, squawking, the bird in my room
Reminds us of his presence.
No one knows how long he’s been here,
But it must be as long as the house has been.
My friend once called it a cat.
It stopped for a while after that,
But still it remained,
Only slightly timid and much less lively.
It has no seeming purpose,
Save for the endless screeching it utters.
The noise grows louder now,
Trying to convey a message, perhaps…
This house, this hall, this room,
Will all, someday, be taken to its doom,
But this bird inside my room
Will sing forever more…