Once when hours could be wasted, when seconds were not
precious, I could listen to the blackbirds in the middle of
a step. I could stop and smile, while running late. You
were always there, and I would come. I would rush to share
my moments of the burst of buds and birdsong. It would be
spring, and the augury birds would coo and whistle. We were
sated with infinity of time.
Perfume of roses couldn’t hide incense of corpse songs from the basement
This was before the crows and magpies settled in our oak. It was
before the message came. I do not wish to talk about your head-
aches now, I wish to sleep, to make believe that birdsong could be
different than road-kill caws that echo in our chamber. I wish
for migratory birds to come, but in their cage the augury birds
The color of the pigeon’s song smells of headstones and a wilted rose.
Why do we wear black at funerals? Is it for our sorrows or
regrets? I have always felt that funerals should not just
mark an end but a new beginning. I have picked the roses, I have
closed the doors, because if I keep walking it prevents me from
thinking, when the augury birds have died.
Two drunkards argue with a lost magpie over an empty beer-can.
This is a haibun of sorts with the haiku replaced with America Sentences. I tried to capture some kind of abstract sense of sorrow here. I will link this to Tuesday Platform at toads.
February 27, 2018