The hawks cry

I heard the call of a hawk the other day,
And I realized I knew what it was I heard,
It was not a song, or a whistle or screech persay,
But a cry, of a lost love that resided in the bird.
Not of the fresh pain like that of the loons,
Or of anger like that of the eagle,
But of long bled, but never healed wounds,
But not as defiant as that of Sea Gull.

No this cry is one of acceptence,
Of the pain that is there,
And to live in it's repentence,
And to sacrifice till the soul is bear.
This was the hawks cry,
To love and all its misery,
And to forget it all shy,
Of the hearts history.