Life is a bird
Of many colors
That flies at birth
At the tear of a cry.

At birth, we cry,
Although our eyes asleep;
Not for what we see,
But for what we feel.

Though on the nectar of breasts,
Though our mother's gentle strokes,
Even so, we cry.
For the first air we draw in -
Is the first pain we inhale.

We feel the breath of life;
We feel the speed of time;
The air about us hangs
A strange welcome it blows.

At the burst of life -
Life begins to end!
At first, as the Crow flies,
But fairly in time,
A winding trail,

Like wings that flutter in the air,
Life swings about twists and turns
From dawn of a season
To dusk of a season.

The star of life, glows at its crest
When at its trough, it fades away;
But a good bargain with life --
To embrace its rough with its smooth.

Life is a spark of colors;
A rose of stories;
Life is a bird
Of many colors.