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.

Sunday, March 20, 2022

A Sigarette

Watch --
Vasenka citizens do not know they are evidence of happiness

in a time of war,
each is a ripped-out document of laughter.

God,
deaf  have something to tell
that not even they can hear --

you will find me, God,
like a dumb pigeon’s beak I am
pecking
every way at astonishment.

If you
climb a roof in the Central Square of a bombarded city, you will see 
my people and me --
one neighbor thieves a cigarette
another gives a dog 
a pint of sunlit beer. 

--Ilya Kaminsky

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)