Work and Trust Yourself

The sounds of baby birds may remind one of heaven,
A bird it is, that can’t even recall where it once flew,
It drifts between the past and today,
A bird that forgot the taste of fire and can’t recall its own burning,
It seeks a remedy for its wounded heart in cold, forgotten stairwells,
A poet, perhaps, who took purity from the divine and stayed loyal to his past,
A bird, maybe, living in doubt, blind to what lies ahead or behind,
A whisper to you, little bird—
Not in the tongue of fantasies,
But in the shadow of reality.
What can you even grasp at dawn,
When will you ever fly, as lies are buried with the evening prayer?
The poet goes silent, but his eyes still speak,
Is that inspiration coming from afar,
Or is it the call of birds leading us into confusion?
The hours of dawn are not the end,
Truth, courage, and—above all—humanity lie with God,
Do you know who the bells toll for, you bird too scared to build a nest?
Leave your eggs in the tree in my garden,
For all I have and ever will have belongs to God,
Everything I sacrifice for my homeland, in both our sacred tongues,
I do not aim to persuade you, oh bird,
Let the lice be yours, and let me seek refuge in God.
Should this poem end now, oh bird?
Or shall the little ones go on writing with their left hands,
Or better—let them write poems with the pure words that flow from their hearts.
Let those who strike below the belt fear them, I say,
Believe or don’t, oh heartless bird,
Believe or not, oh bird who’s lost its mind to greed and wealth,
There are many prayers upon you,
It’s best you cut it out and free yourself,
If I were a bird, I would land only on poems,
On poems worth reading,
Let the lies be yours, you clueless bird,
Some poems begin—
And never end.
For it is God who gives life to both me and you on this earth,
A little cold blood,
A little warm blood is what gives us life.
Don’t fear me, oh bird,
As long as God keeps me safe,
You too are safe with me.
Work and trust yourself…