The Bird

There's a bird on a hill.
He will fly where he will.
Be it east; be it west;
It is where he likes best.
There is none who's more free
Of a one than is he,
But if he were to steer
To the clouds, far too near,
Or too close to the ground,
He shall surely be found
As a part, not a whole,
As a corpse without soul.
He'll be dead, don't you see?
He'll no longer be free,
For from safety, he'll stray,
And the price, he shall pay.