A tiny little bird
lived in a grandfather clock
in a shepherd’s home
in the valley
by the blue hill.
Years and years,
tried the little bird,
to escape the clock
and time within.
On a warm summer evening,
when the clock struck five,
came out the little bird,
like all the other hours,
and out she flew,
flapping her wings,
through the large window
into the blue sky
into the timeless land.
Here I am,
on a warm summer evening,
trying to break the wall,
of what’s called real,
to join the little bird.