Starling Cloud Poem by Wulf Kirsten

autumn swings a black rattle,
audacious aerial games displayed
in the sky, directed from a maestro
who instructed the starling cloud to cut
figures, waving flags and sinking,
gusts so soft and light, gusts
so supple and ornate till it flies
up, the cloud in black,
as if possessed by the devil,
to see, to admire how elegant
the starlings form, committed
to a ballet that abruptly clenches
and swiftly dissolves again
following supernatural command,
directed shape, a kind of circus
performance, a rushing of wings
a thousand times over, in unison
completely in black, the sky grazed
bare, myriads against myriads,
a prelude of fleeting images
flashing there, transience
practices speaking figures,
no causeless commemoration, no different
equally yours, equally mine.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt