there is no home on this desolate land

Feathers fledge fully on the unwilling woodpecker’s wings

He cries out, not yet ready 

For the cold winds of the north

And the blinding sunlight from the east

One day, you must leave me

His mother had always said

This nest will see the end of my days

You will find the land that will see the end of yours 

Wings spread, he searches, dewdrops afresh

The perfect tree, the perfect brood, the perfect love

Only all you could want from the world

Evading the cruel creaking of metal against the trees behind him

The mornings are clear, the nights are calm

No one can harm us here, my dear

In the solitary cavity of the highest forest

Far from the ruins of your mother’s old nest

But there is no home on this desolate land, he says

My home is where the songs of my brethren are near

Where the gentle warmth of my mother lingered evermore

Yet that is of the past, faded by the ignorant stroke of time

And today, as I lay in this construction of mine

I fear the coming of the new day

As I know, amidst the illusion of comfort,

There is no home on this desolate land.