The lonely lark that freely flies
Soars through barren indigo skies
It gives out a call, strong and clear--
It echoes far; it echoes near.

Nothing's around, no one heard,
And sorrow to the lonely bird,
It scans the skies in search of friends--
But finds only darkness, as night descends.

The lark's heart aches, it no longer sings,
And tired become its once strong wings--
It sighs and takes a final breath
And the mournful creature welcomes death.

The once beautiful bird is now forever mute,
It's wings outstretched in a last salute--
It died of heartbreak, sadness, and tears.
They too can be killers, or so it appears.

And sometimes still on a warm summer's day,
When all the birds come out to play,
The lonely lark is said to appear.
Still sorrowful after all the years.