The Thornbirds

There's a legend of a bird,
That sings and dies; I had heard.

The last time I died was last Sepetember;
Now, its been a while.

Since then, life's been strangely easy.
In uncharecteristic ways, big and small.
Slowly, the bitterness made way for wonder
Hesitant. Trembling. Small ... New footsteps. New songs.

But I knew, the moment I saw
the letters of your name form,
that I'll have to die again;
A premonition of the fall.

You're the chosen one.

You will be the flame; the glass wall;
that these eyes, beautiful and all,
will be the well, from which will flow,
the bitter sweet poison-love,
which will maim me and
make me small.

I'll float,
my whole spectrum again
Mother. Woman. Child.
I'll give you my all.

Then you'll sit me down and clip my wings,
and I'll never fly at all.

You'll be my thorn;
I'll sing again.

And then I'll die. Once again.
This time, once and for all.