When I was a wren quite young,
I would sing a happy song, 
in the trees, on tiny branches.
I would sing all morning long.
I often joined the choir of birds,
voices blending bright and loud.
Side by side we sang our tunes;
so happy, so carefree, so proud.
As days have passed it seems,
my voice is weaker, as am I.
There’s melancholy in my songs.
There’s instability when I fly.
But in the dawn of morning sun,
you’ll hear me in a nearby tree.
I’ll sing a song you always loved,
though weaker it might be.
Please take the time to listen.
It will mean the world to me.
And though the time will come
when I’m no longer in the tree,
you’ll hear the echo of my songs,
as a gift to you from me.