The little brown owl

Sepia brown feathers with white snowdrops,

That feels like clouds in my fantasy.

With its beak like a sword to fulfil his stomach,

Or catch the food of his dreams.

Fancy feathers to camouflage with trees,

And his eager eyes to see In the depth of night.

They are as messy as my room when the wind is blowing strong,

And as tidy as the beach in the gentle sunlight.





Opening its wings like double doors,

Leading itself in a foreign land.

Eating like he could never stop,

And staying quiet until the end.

Abandoned at a young age,

And leaving the world in 70 years.


                                                    The end


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