BIRD’S ELEGY

children

are most like birds

brothers to angels

they still haven’t learned to fly

safely fluttering about in their nests

chirping revealed in their voices

you remember of course children’s

puzzling passion: burying birds

beneath the earth and constructing

a make-shift cross at the head of a grave

(as if in the frozen bird’s mound they created

a sanctuary for their own bird-like spirits)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . .

but remember the dilated pupils

those eyes wide with grief

for the bird—then isn’t the madness

of cruelty lessened in children—and tenderness

suddenly and stealthily streams into what

we call the soul—his is the greatest moment

when an angel becomes a person—

achieving perfection . . .

ask your friends then let them ask

to your amazement you will

comprehend the number

of birds’ graves filled by the hands

of children—in other words how much

tenderness should exist on earth—so tell me

where does it go? why doesn’t it grow with us?

why is it given to everyone only once

and only a handful to the soul?

so all masons that inhabit the vertebrae

stubbornly lift our bones

raising our heart higher and higher

(as if our heart could see further)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . .

through the years only this inconsolable sadness

limitless sadness with the eyes of children

that slips into us—slowly but steadfastly

substitutes itself for our ruined soul—

fills it and immediately reigns on its own

over our quiet hearts

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . .

every time in testament

we leave a sadder soul

more alone more despondent

become the generations of

people

birds

trees

Translated by Olen Jennings