Would we ever sing a song of life?

It was the first shower of this monsoon. No, it was not. We had had a few spells of raining before. But, it all had graceful descent from azure sky that would let souls to buoy up in delight. It went on blowing gentle tunes of autumn fall on its flute. Moments had flown through hours, days and nights till an August evening before they paused and closed its wings to witness captivating beauty of the queen of night—the monsoon. The last night could barely swear on its becoming a space for to hold sweet dreams within her folded palms of silence and it slowly crept into shrouds of giant waves of grey clouds crushing in from all over. As a mature twilight had neatly buried its last shaft of radiance into towering minarets of western castle, the night swathed herself in an awe-inspiring obscurity while clouds kept on brushing newer tones—darker and darker—that would present its facades more fearsome and ruthless.
The tempest swept in so swiftly and had already drenched long curtains widely hung upon those eastern windows of our bedroom in its juvenile fervour. Those long windows had offered us endless moments of delightful presence of those tall trees in our orchard—some older than us—with broad sunshine dancing down through its silhouetted leafs, and with moonshine showering its silvery shades upon, and in utter darkness of night with sparkles of glow-worms—weaving designs with dreams of the past and nostalgia for the present—and with holding nests for so many beautiful birds that sang the morning tunes for us.
Stupefied we stood in silence—motionless—in midst of ravaging lashes of the tempest. We could hear aches of pain, shrill cries of fright and hisses of sardonic chortles of destiny from above those hidden branches where our little winged friends struggled to keep their tiny nests secured and chicks protected. It was an appalling revelation but for an ordained futurity that some had certainly lost either the nest or the chicks or both before the curtain was drawn. Somewhere deep within we felt missing those unnamed friends, whom we never knew, but whose melodious tunes the dawn would ever borrowed to knock at our door. Were there patches on our faces where confluences of some futile tears and squally spray of raindrops had truly surfaced? Perhaps, we would never know!
The morning—a calm, cool and shining—did knock our door again. And, it again borrowed all sweet tunes that it had always done. Our tiny winged friends kept on singing newer songs of life for us. We got up and ran towards the window. Destiny had left all signs of its unassailable supremacy. So had been the Nature.
But the birds still never forgot to sing those beautiful tunes for us with usual glee. The melodies never turned into a mournful dirge.
Life has so much to offer; so many tunes it holds within that a few realises like our so little winged friends. Perhaps, the Lord has, thus, blessed them with wings to fly high to breathe in lovelier tunes of life from above.
Would we ever sing a song of life?