Sweet chirps do not come from the canary imprisoned 

It sings not a song to be heard

Impotent is its need to turn its head

When a familiar ghost comes to listen 

The edges of its presence, blurred

It seeks to be welcomed warmly with tune

Yellow feathers are ruffled instead

Parted curtains brighten 

Its eyes with the light of the moon

The grip 'round its throat tightens 

Nothing heard but an empty scream

It lives for song but none can come

From behind these cold iron bars

Except for the music that it dreams