It was a bird, a petulant bird that pecked upon the window
First so slowly, slowly then with urgent crescendo
As if it could it finally could say what it had to say-o
Its cry so muffled by the glass the structure in the way-o

chorus:
Mo ghr?a'n B?is deacair a r?r>'S riamh an l?'ag gabh?-o (siud sa chr?)

She had lain for many days, no years of indecision
Drifting in and out of sleep, no words describe the prison
With passion all reduced to pain in swollen joints and vision
She once independent now dependent on good wishing

I walked so slow so not to scare this cold bird at the window
Trying the while to ascertain its variegated colors
As if the seasons there had left confusion in the willows
Of leaves and flowers blown apart and covered on the pillow

She had said o'er and o'er that they could take her home now
As if she was some other place with strangers all unknown-o
Was it home to Clay Street to her childhood she would go now
Closer than I would have come this bird had come much closer

This bird was finally dismayed to find its own reflection
Stood so starkly motionless then flew in all directions
By the lines of modern thought the ancient body was consigned-o
The ashes to be placed somewhere where stained glass cast its light-o

Was it there it finally flew, this bird that was at the window?
It looked so free in passing as if the passing opened in-o
'Twas days and days and days before I could finally hear the cry-o
As if this passing the only way that I could say goodbye-o