All the women I meet are tired

Maya, oh Maya... you keep telling me what I already know. Tell me why the caged bird does NOT sing. At first, I thought its beak had been tied shut, but now I wonder. Has its lost its voice? Has it forgotten the lyrics to the melodies once known by heart? Has it lost the ability to string together more and make its own anthems? Or is it the interest that has been misplaced? No, not that... those avian ears still care enough to listen to my somber notes as they drift or pierce through one of the many windows viewed through shatter-resistant glass.

Then again, this unspoken audience may be no bird in a cage at all, but simply a man in an apartment. The warbler, potentially, kicked the bucket years ago from neglect. Was it the canary in the coal mine of our connection? And me, I have simply been on a fool's errand as I poke at the bars as if to disturb a surprised or agitated chirp or two.

And maybe that is the answer, Maya — a caged bird can sing, but a dead one cannot.