A Quote by Sheryl Crow

Don't the wounded bird still sing? — © Sheryl Crow
Don't the wounded bird still sing?
When I got to sit in Big Bird's nest with Big Bird and sing the song, 'Sing. Sing a song. Sing out loud,' that was my crowning achievement.
People always say it's harder to heal a wounded heart than a wounded body. Bullshit. It's exactly the opposite—a wounded body takes much longer to heal. A wounded heart is nothing but ashes of memories. But the body is everything. The body is blood and veins and cells and nerves. A wounded body is when, after leaving a man you’ve lived with for three years, you curl up on your side of the bed as if there’s still somebody beside you. That is a wounded body: a body that feels connected to someone who is no longer there.
I heard a bird sing In the dark of December A magical thing And sweet to remember. 'We are nearer to Spring Than we were in September,' I heard a bird sing In the dark of December.
A bird in the hand is a certainty, but a bird in the bush may sing.
A bird in hand is a certainty. But a bird in the bush may sing.
Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. In effect, the people who change our lives the most begin to sing to us while we are still in darkness. If we listen to their song, we will see the dawning of a new part of ourselves.
Little Bird if you don't sing for me I will make you sing
Do not say that I'll depart tomorrow because even today I still arrive. Look at me: I arrive in every second to be a bud on a spring branch, to be a tiny bird whose wings are still fragile, learning to sing in my new nest, to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.
I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing - The spring decoys. And as the summer nears - And as the Rose appears, Robin is gone. Yet do I not repine Knowing that Bird of mine Though flown - Learneth beyond the sea Melody new for me And will return.
I sing. I used to think singing is going to be the route, and I still sing to this day. I still try to write lyrics.
Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.
Our sacred beliefs have been made pencils / names of cities / gas stations / My knee is wounded so badly that I limp constantly / Anger is my crutch / I hold myself upright with it / My knee is wounded / see / How I Am Still Walking.
A skylark wounded in the wing, / A cherubim does cease to sing.
I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
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