Adonis' songbird

Adonis is ill tonight, bleak is this music

devoid of any meaning, it is the songbird's fault

the songbird cuts her vocal cords

one by one, two for the lumps that grow on throats like cankers on trees

the third for the leftovers of her voice

she hangs them over Adonis' head, like washing  to ward off the evil eye

far from his hay-and- flower ornamented bed, she tries to restrains

the pairs that give him their blueness and gradation of yellow

Adonis is ill tonight and she pleads with her body;

pleading cranberries, pleading the river, pleading the tunes she sings

for a calmer woodland and a softer moon. Adonis may sleep well away from the wild boars.

 Her Adonis is ill for the night and she can only squeeze his hand 

and dance around the fire they light, together at many instances

Adonis is terribly ill for the night and she's already given him her voice

because she had nothing better to offer, nothing more precious to the

bright-feathered, bedside tethered songbird.

Picture credits: Peter Paul Rubens c.o. Google Art collection.