The first song he sang, was sweet and clear.
He sang it only for his mother’s ear.
He then sang at school, with many others;
In church like an angel, inspiring his brothers.
One day sobs of despair, his voice broke;
His voice resembled a toads croak.
But he sang hour after hour; his voice getting finer;
He sang to the flowers that grew in the garden
With the birds in the sky, in harmony with their song.
His voice was heard by the sick who grew strong
By the sad and lonely, whose spirits were lifted
The measure of pleasure he imparted unlimited,
As the songs of the birds and the crash of the waves.