Tich was our canary.

He was small and yellow and sang like an angel.

We loved him dearly. He lived in a big cage in our living room.

When I played the piano he began to sing and I felt great joy

But his life ended too soon

We cried, seen hopeless how his little heart weakened,

and one dreadful day stopped beating.

His voice was heard no more.

My piano and I were sad without his company.

My dad was devastated.

He had discovered the poetry behind that little creature.

And now he was gone.

We buried him inside a little box,

under an elm in the garden of the University.

We didn’t have a proper place to do it in our apartment.

We didn’t buy another bird.

Tich was irreplaceable in our lives.

The empty cage disappeared from the room.

There were no more happy melodious trills.

Our house had lost a little bit of his poetry.


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