It is a late, late night, tonight it is.
The dashing birds of green are silent at last
And everywhere there is breathing being whispered
And what else is such a night but the past?
Hark! a renegade cries out, breaks the silence;
Perhaps I too am calling to no one,
Perhaps we are both afraid of the night
Perhaps we are more frightened by the sun.
Poor fellow! I have shelter, he has sky,
But I pity him not for being a bird.
He is, he is sleepy on his pillows;
I dream of thread and crumbs, think hats absurd.
We both live tonight, we both die at dawn;
He flutters from night to night and is gone.
February 16, 2006