There was once a day,
as I walked between stations
on my way to work,
how this small sparrow,
helplessly and hopelessly
down on the sidewalk,
entered mon œuvre,
as a metaphor for poor
people on the ground;
restless, little bird
screamed obscenities at me,
had he gone berserk?
entered my conscience,
so I could never forget
suffering the small...
winsome, little bird,
gone unheard and unnoticed,
by people who talk
ageless, mindless thoughts
of their petty, mundane lives
just to hear the sound,
steeped in bitter tea,
of their own shallow voices
in the noisy din
of the city streets
first thing in the bright sunshine
of the morning squall;
nothing I could do
to help the helpless sparrow
but feel great pity,
compassion, I thought,
lacking creativity,
but where do I start?
entered the sparrow
to engage with my karma,
the nitty-gritty
absence of mercy
I lacked ever since childhood;
a stone must depart
down into a lake
once tossed to skip wickedly
over the bruised skin,
across the surface,
to sink back into darkness
for decades long past;
yesterday, I spoke
about this sparrow to friends,
how long must this last?
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