The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, December 20, 2019

The Missing Stairs

Our children
see
the hoarded ruin of cities.

Touch the veil that laps the suburbs.

Muse
upon the shocks caused by the falling
of the swallows
that no longer distinguish the telegraph wires.

Contemplate themselves inside the daily dirty mirror
no one answers for.

Learn with the dying
to count life's missing stairs.
And grow up unamazed.

--Roberto Sosa
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)