A wise old Indian once said to me
Life is like a singer singing his song,
The song may be very tragic and short,
Or very beautiful and long.

For it has been given to every man,
His very own singing time,
To sing his own song of life,
His very own music and rhyme.

A man must go on singing,
Adding more music and new words to sing,
'Till the time given his song is ended,
Until the bird of his spirit takes wing.

If, for whatever may be the reason,
His song loses its music and rhyme,
His heart will break in millions of pieces,
Causing his life to end ahead of its time.

The bird of his spirit will wander,
Forlorn on broken wing,
Far over the deserts of space and time,
'Til it finds another life - Song to sing.