I can see you with my eye.

                   As, so high in the sky, fly.

               A tear falls from my eye, as I cry.

                    You, so near and so far.

                I can see you through the bars.

  I wish I was with you.  Flying so high in the sky of blue.

      I wish see, that I was that free.

          So high above the trees, gently blowing in

                                     the breeze.

                                I see you outside my window.

                              My window of glass.

                          All this time does pass.



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Lesa Gay's picture

The freedom of the birds. What a wonderful thing. When I was little I always used to dream I could fly. I guess we have all done that. It would seem here that freedom had been stripped away from the writer.