That song comes from sorrow      there is no doubt. 
    
Bullfinches   in ancient times      had eyes put out
         
so they would             sing more sweet.       Think of
           
those    black beads      dropped to earth     coming
   
to seed       flowers   turning inward    every   single
   
one of them     without    its     sight.
    
Stories say      that    moving   in the wind     they
    
made up song    as if nothing     had been lost  and
   
this   rings    long   into   the night. Every    sound
   
we hear    turns   to    a bigger one    and   each   is
   
true.   We  add   our own   until it is    the  first
   
din     ever   heard,    the  way       poetry      begins.