I know the sparrow in the marrow
of your bones.
And in the spring, closely within
your pirouettes I follow
like the hollow echo of sea,
crazy as foam.
I know the bird I heard
while drifting on the sand.
Was it in summer, when seagulls hover
and the ocean summons the shore,
the heart hungers for more,
and love is mute as a hand?
I know the bird I heard
as I stumbled in a wood.
Was it in autumn, as leaves fall to the bottom,
your wings raised to the summit my soul
and, from a golden bowl,
offered the beat of their blood?
I know the song, a gilded gong,
the sounds of Byzantium.
Come winter, when snow is kinder
than frost—the words unveiled:
warm, veritable, frail—
two birds will soar as one.
A fine love poem, Martin. There is a classic feel to it, very Yeatsian. The subtlety of the rhyme scheme enhances the piece. Fine work. Hugh
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful rhyme, use of nature very nice. Patricia