In the other room the bird
leaves its signature in song,
wrestled out of the bra** cage
in which it has lived two years now,
silent then loud and always remote.
What makes it happy at such simplicity,
the urge to sing at dawn,
preening feathers until mid morning
when the song begins again?
But the deep gray of plumage sometimes
settles into arguments, the cage
an executioners' challenge that might come
at any time expecting nothing more than
extinction. And now, like the bird,
we twist and turn without exactly
saying anything, our colloquy
sacked by silences. Now my common
love is over and like the bird I stay
impa**ive with insensibility covering
me as the rose would cover in summertime.
But the one distinction stays:
memory, the good, the bad,
whatever needs to be forgotten
except the red heart of love
that happened once
not so far away,
the tatters of its revolution
ended now,
the sad mistake of forbearance
shifted. There is time now to leave
and let the memories shine,
the only thing left to grasp
in this world filled with uncertainties,
the last thought rested with you,
the cold hand of misery emptied,
the warm hand of love accepted.