Old Age

I am a migrant bird,

Fly hundred miles each year

Unwavering support from my pals,

We visit Sri Lanka every year.

Inner voice say I hate winter!

I need to fly and catch warmth and worm,

Wing bones are feeble and dying,

Feathers are not tight.

Chicks were all fly away,

Old cork tree becomes my thatched home,

Recalling my address in the bluey sky

Pride still for what a life that I had