I'm going. Now the bird will flap his wings and correctly sit
At 4:15, near the plam tree, in the airy setting, doing his chores.
I'll let you look at me as the white clouds wed the red, pondering sky.
I'll stand docile like an animal, chewing the cud and swatting life's little problems.
I'll show you my plush, my brevity of a robin, small and lilting, my voice.
I'll let the wind billow my fleet, like a flag girded with battlements.
I'm boasting.
In your bronze window,
I see you doing tense business, studying me with personal love.
This time you praised me.
And I'd take it even if you were a butcher awing over my scalded skin.
Even if you were a worm on my sty-face. I'd have still respected that.
I'd have still respected that.
I learnt that it was for my stoic inconsiderate self.
When you tried to pounce on me, I looked back at you. Worrying, for you.
You want to show me your idyllic ways
To wallow like buffaloes after tedious work.
I want to forge my crown staring into the nebulous light.
It slips from my hands like astringent plums
When I stand near you.
