The Blackbird

It is seen among couples on park benches at midnight—

     It is not seen by them.

It is heard by the deaf and felt by the blind.

It greets fools plunged into darkness.

It is all around the dying

     and inside the living.

It stops the waves at the shoreline and sends them back.

It turns the greenest trees yellow and lets them die.

It falters the voices of angels,

     their songs falling short in the abyss.

It turns the nights silent

     and the sky dark.

It chases time like a falcon.

It is not something I know,

     but something I welcome,

like love for a broken heart,

like water for a starving man.


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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada