Sparrow chick

It was yesterday
when my heart was a sparrow chick.

Cuddling the city to the sun,
collecting beams of the moon,
saying hello to the butterflies
and turning the atmosphere into Eden
with its feather was its mystique.

I don't like to write in red, and I feel so cold
but the voyage of that tiny soul
has come to an end.

Often, I see it
sitting on the birch of its own depth.
Where empty houses became home
or daydreams turned into realities;
there was nocturne both in heaven and hell -
dreams and vows weren't swept away
in rain of pain.

Can't you see?
It is drowning in the river of heartbreaks
or tired of living in the fear of the unknown;
burning in the melancholic musings
of your reflection
and suffering in the imagination of nothing.

It is limped and despondent
yet aim to soar the farthest shore
for a glimpse of you.

However,
no restoration point is left for it
other than your green-golden eyes
in which it still sees the light of faith
in-between the trail of its tears.