I know the sparrow in the marrow <br />of your bones. <br />And in the spring, closely within <br /> your pirouettes I follow <br /> like the hollow echo of sea, <br />crazy as foam. <br /> <br />I know the bird I heard <br />while drifting on the sand. <br />Was it in summer, when seagulls hover <br /> and the ocean summons the shore, <br /> the heart hungers for more, <br />and love is mute as a hand? <br /> <br />I know the bird I heard <br />as I stumbled in a wood. <br />Was it in autumn, as leaves fall to the bottom, <br /> your wings raised to the summit my soul <br /> and, from a golden bowl, <br />offered the beat of their blood? <br /> <br />I know the song, a gilded gong, <br />the sounds of Byzantium. <br />Come winter, when snow is kinder <br /> than frost—the words unveiled: <br /> warm, veritable, frail— <br />two birds will soar as one.<br /><br />Martin A. Ramos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-seasons-with-sparrows/
