A little bird's bellow

A soft pinch. A demure cry.

Enters a bundle of joy.

So precious, so chaste,

That one might fear.

It is too dear

To enter this world, 

a world so full of hate.

A world, which not unlike the little one

Was once, itself unaware of the worldly ways.

Just like the little one's face,

the world once too was a blank slate.

When the only cuts it knew were the ones made by rivers

Meandering through the lush plains,

Where birds wandered freely, not bound by nations

Maybe they wander still, and maybe they always will

But what about this little one?

The one who is much too small to fly yet,

And much too human to take a free flight.

The one who is trapped in the world as we know it,

The one who will never know about the world as we got it.

The world as we got it, much too precious, much too pure,

A clean slate. With mountains the only borders there ever were,

perpetual and infallible. God's precious monuments.

The world, in which the only tussles known were

between the shore and the sea waves.

The little one might not know it yet,

But it has got a lot to see.

Perhaps some deep wounds, 

God forbid, some deeper still.

But god left this place a long time ago, they say.

Otherwise, how could we have made these deep incisions

To this earth anyway?

For although we see wires, these borders are wrought with blood.

Blood, which reeks of malice, greed and fallacious passions,

Passions, to reason the wrongs, to suppress the rights;

But I do hope some day, the little one might get to take a free flight.

Because even though it has been a long time that God left this place,

A little hope still remains.

For although the cuts are too deep, 

A smile, some warmth,

A pinch of kindness; might still seep.