The poet may write of little things,
But how grand they become when they spread their wings,
Taking to the sky on their maiden flight,
Like quivering beams, they cast out the night
The singer chants but a simple tune
That rises to delight the ear of the moon,
A song born of heartfelt love will unfold
A melody that's more precious than gold
It's little things that should make us pause:
Dear friends we find priceless, in spite of their flaws,
Their warm embrace is there for the taking,
They bring comfort when your heart is breaking
When we cry for help, a hand extends,
For all of life's miseries, love makes amends,
The rain storm that makes us run and cower
Coaxes each bud to bloom on the bower
And so we must search the earth and skies
For little treasures that thrill our ears and eyes,
From a branch he calls home, the robin sings,
For he knows the value of little things
dear friends are/is NOT a little thing! ok, maybe not as big as two gallons of ice cream, WITH cake. and, to a robin, whose nest may be on the branch, with eggs and/or babies and/or a mate, the branch is not a little thing, even if it is not a big branch. but i still like ya. :) bri
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
oops! been here, done this. ;) bri