You wait and wait and wait.
And the birds sing every morning, regardless of your mood.
And you keep telling people the same thing even though it's changed.
Then one day the birds stop singing.
And one day you say something different.
You wait and wait and wait, but they never start singing again.
And you can never say what you said before.
So you lay in bed listening to the empty sounds of the a.m.
And you wonder if the birds were ever there in the first place.
Or if you'd just figured they'd be
because they're supposed to be
but the morning is empty.
And so are you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem