THE FACT THAT NO BIRDS SING Poem by Jan Erik Vold

When sorrow comes, there is no
language

for it. Sorrow
is blackness, is absence, is yearning - many names

can be used, none of which
equals sorrow. To bear sorrow

is not to want to get up
in the morning, not to manage to lift your foot

from the sidewalk, not to be able to escape
the same stab in your heart that you felt

yesterday, the day before yesterday, two days
before yesterday, every time

you pass those spots in town, those landscapes
of mind, those names

for what you lost: a body, a laughter, a lightness - a pair
of eyes to meet your own. Do those eyes

have a name? Are they called Oscar? Are they called
Kathinka? The fact that O or K is gone

is incomprehensible, incomprehensible, incomprehensible
- is there a name for it? The fact

that K or O shall never place a calming hand
on your forehead brings pain

beyond words - is there a name for it? The fact
that no birds

sing. A blackness
called sorrow. Lasts seldom more than seven years.