these, who live
in the birdhouse,
are not at all “my” pigeons.
I am not there during the day.
And I cannot recognize myself.
At night they talk to each other.
I understand that this is so,
when in the room with my pigeons
I am met by a big blue eye.
They shyly grow quiet.
Do not be concerned.
They get along just fine.
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Comments about this poem (My Pigeons by Bozhidar Pangelov )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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