There is a song about birds
how their feathers become collectibles
how they fly away from danger
it is all usual, love
we are used to this relation: a bird, a sky, a flight ahead
there is this song about birds
a winged freedom, as if, only by experiencing the clouds
will we be able to appreciate the mud and stone
it is all usual, love
but I am not that generous with you,
no feather, fallen, silver on its edges
a little darkened with a winter sown
breeze, that tangles our hair too
it is all usual, love
that there is a song about birds
it starts with a soft whistle and echos
of flight, of being light, of letting go, love
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