the birds here
are not wanting
always in time
for their instincts
i think they all
sing for you
and here you are
usual in your late waking
these birds are
not insistent
when they leave
they leave
even without you
or us
it is a clock affair
their wings always
accurately tell
and then you know it
well
as they move again
to distant places
without much drama
no talk
their flights tell
them who they are
and here you are
depressed and dying...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem