The Birds
Spring came far too early this year:
May flowers blooming in February.
Should I be sad for the month,
or glad for the sky?
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.
Two days ago, a girl I truly thought I loved
suddenly didn’t seem to matter at all.
Should I sing sad farewell to things
I’m really glad I’ve left behind?
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.
In another day, heavy snow will lie upon the ground
and buds prematurely bloomed shall fail;
and every creature living now,
then will surely die…
The birds don’t know which way to sing
and, my friend,
neither do I.
The birds don’t know if it’s time yet to fly;
they don’t know which way to go
and, my friend,
neither do I.
I Once Wrote Some Poems
I once wrote some poems of stillness and silence,
standing by rivers of reflected light;
my thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too -
I surrendered to the warmth of the night.
And now I feel like dying,
and if the water were still here, it would
hold me close.
I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones,
as cobbles, rain and tears lashed down my face;
I then felt my whole world was fading
as memories jostled and fell into place.
And now I feel like dying,
and the pain of old fires still burns.
I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles
and Death started slipping into my mouth…
but that was really a long time ago,
and I’m not writing poems now.
And though I don’t feel quite like dying,
there is something deep inside me
softly crying.
And though I don’t feel quite like dying
there is something deep inside me softly.…