Who are poets
but chroniclers of birds
and the way they fly.
Standing atop a peak,
a poet watches a bird, an eagle,
and see how it flies,
how it preys,
what colored sun rays lifts it to air.
Like a historian standing atop time
and watching a man, a nationalist,
and see how he revolts,
how he becomes a prey,
what colored bullets lifts him to air.
A poet watches a bird, an eagle,
swirling down
as if it is a piece of brown silk
and wonders about it.
That bird and its charming movement
in the cloudless sky are forgotten,
but the poet’s wonderment remains
like the memory of a soap bubble.
A chronicler watches a man, a nationalist,
swirling down
as if he is a falling flag
and fantasy about him.
That man and his dreams
about a greater reality are forgotten,
but the chronicler’s fantasy remains
like the memory of a childhood dream.
