Has some one seen anything sadder
Than Neruda’s train, standing in rain
Or your little cage, empty and vacant.
Your black eyes, which twilights behold
Your song whence, from little breast
Red beak, wings a cupid worn:
What places thou fly little muse!
Without leaving a trace
Would someone be of such unkind tenor?
Wherefrom O death, your cruel claw
Reacheth and stretched, except by
Deceit, hidden as though always you are
In the sleeve. He had learned the art of survival,
He would to noise’s nuance call
And shout hell. He had learned how
To be home. Then how,
The agape cage, like a thatched hut
With one eye gaze, hollow and void.
Yet you left a few feathers, we do not know
But you are lost to us, and with
A grieving heart, I do thank thee, I do thank thee,
O little bird. For having spent these days,
These nights with us, and having given us
To fancy a bit, that you might be flying,
Across the trees, somewhere in Eden.
-Peco, my daughter Vareesha’s little parakeet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem