One Last Hymn from a Gentle Bird

Crest curving like the crescent moon,

And fluttering wings grown so soon.


Sweet hymns I sang in church to the Lord;

But at home similar songs had soared.


I wrapped my velvet, ivory fingers around.

The trust was in not making a sound.


Grey, white, and yellow–each would hug,

In feathery softness against my neck snug.


“Be good, be gentle,” I often would say;

Those beady eyes blinked an “okay.”


Chirp chirp, chirp chirp; the sound of content.

If only his last had not been in torment.


⌊ © Serena Delgado (June, 2018) ⌉

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