There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in his life,more
sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth.From the moment it
leaves the nest it searchs for a thorn tree,and does not rest until it has
found one.Then,singing among the savage branches,it impales itself upon the
largest ,sharpest spine.And,dying,it rises above its own agony to outcarol
the lark and the nightingale.One superlative song,existence the price.But the
whole world stills to listen,and God in His Heaven smiles.For the best is
only bought at the lost of great pain....Or so says the legend.
The bird with the thorn in its breast ,it follows an immutable law;it is
driven by it knows not what to impale itself,and die singing.At the very
instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come;it
simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another
note.But we,when we put the thorns in our breasts,we know.We understand.And
still we do it.Still we do it.
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