The nostalgic leaves, the late Autumn breeze,
The apathetic moon, the withering trees.
A wise old man with balding head,
Finding beauty in what's almost dead.
The ducks, they swim and clean their wings,
They beg for food, and my heart wrings.
"Can't we just feed them a little bread?
I'm scared they'll starve without it," I said.
The wise old man just sighs at me,
"If we feed them, they can't be free.
They will stay the winter long,
They'll freeze to death, which is wrong.
"Sometimes, when you care to much,
Others will use it as a crutch.
So these ducks that you say you love,
Leave them alone to fly above
"the dead trees to a warmer place,
So they may find new ponds to grace.
If you truly care, let them go.
It's the hardest thing, I know."
I never fed those ducks the bread,
In fear they soon would be dead.
When I awoke to the suns ascent,
The ducks were gone, and I was content.
I fed you that lustful bread.
Now I fear you'll never leave,
Can't you just be done with me?
Seth McPhail
