You may think to yourself: “Here is a crazy old lady wandering through the birds
Feeding them like a cuckoo, a lady who’s gone off her rocker.”
Which may and alrighty be correct about myself
But alas! Do you not see the simple joys this can bring to life
Have you never held a poor animal in your hand and stared deep into its eyes?
A moment betwixt, no matter whom the beings, is the fragile state of my mind
I do not have the moments some of you may still have
I have born all my children, raised them as a good woman should
My own two hands most days worked raw to the bone
Scrubbing and toiling to send them off fed and clean
To get a better life than I could ever have dreamt about
And I, the lone patron of this empty house have nothing left to do
Save care for my own mind, my own sanity
Hence my pigeons. My bag of feed I carry endlessly around the squares
Making my home there home, sharing my soul with their souls
Until my children come back home
Until my memory remains, begone.
