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Birds of a feather, they sing together,
Calling the onslaught of pain, strain, and gain,
Humming a tune of what was and would be.

When the lion leaves its wretched hurst,
When the tiger dawns from its sullied den,
The sun—so, so bright—it shines

And the birds fly from their nests and roosts
Towards the sun and the godless heavens,
Their wings beating to the thrum of the bells.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Oh, how they sing and
Sing and sing—endless, fearless, timeless.
A chorus to the harmony of playing carillons,

Yet singular, nonetheless, as they hum,
We are free, We are free, We are free

About Author

Gina Kotinek

Gina Kotinek is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of the SPOT Lit. She can usually be found hunched over her computer, reading, writing, or searching for the art of conquering carpal tunnel and tendonitis.