Analysis of Desperation Before Death

In violent fields, no eye is on the sparrow.
It flits amidst the rage of sling and arrow.
And though to it, no refuge calls,
Still, it beats its wing until to earth it falls a breathless thing.
How frail a thread holds hope above the fray.
Too soon it yields to weight of mortal wound.
And sparrows lie in fields like buds that never bloom.