your birds

The nightingale, tired of singing, flees
about a poem that is not yours
the budding of unborn life
made him spread his wings and launch himself through the air

The nightingale runs away tired of staying
on a branch that did not bloom
who, drowned by pity, has rotted away,
by the rude bitterness it came to fall

thus, without leaves, you were naked!
so, without branches, in a trunk you became!
smoother than coldness and bad luck!

there is no melody that can help you!...
wings fled, fled without north
in you, the birds... never land again!