The Sparrow

Down the river gold and straight,
The Sparrow floats with upright gait,
And sings her song with voice of weight,
To ease the storm, to meditate.
The Sparrow floats to make her home.
And there she sings a song forlorn,
With all intention not to scorn,
But more or less of which to warn
That Sparrow floats to make her home.

The skies above turn cloudy, grey,
The sun is hiding, dimming day,
Above the Sparrow making way
Along the river's path to stay,
The Sparrow swims to make her home.
Tears of rain now touch the river.
Sparrow shakes, a gentle quiver,
And river's grasses pass a shiver
As Sparrow swims to make her home.

Thunder shouts and lightning cracks,
The torrent on the river smacks,
And river banks and running wax.
While mud and grime are slipping lax,
The Sparrow speeds to make her home.
Under the waves of speedy suction,
With Sparrow's breath in swift reduction,
She passes then her final notion.
The Sparrow fails to make her home.

Yet on the land the people cry,
While throwing praises unto high,
For just before the land's to die
The water floods from opened sky.
The family now can make their home.
The fields of barley and of grain,
So close and wary to be slain,
Have found salvation in the rain;
The family now can make their home.

With child's belly satisfied,
A deep reproach, once known inside,
Is thrown out by the riverside,
Unlocking times that once denied
The family chance to make their home.
By falling down in sweet excess,
Upon their fields it comes to bless
And sooth the land with soft caress,
The rain, it falls to make a home.

Down the river, gold and straight,
The people dance with jocund gait,
And sing their songs with voice of weight
To home and stead, to celebrate.
The people now have made their home.
But once she sang a song forlorn,
With all intention not to scorn,
But more or less of which to warn
That now, forever, Sparrow's home.