the birds do not sing of death by David McLean

the birds sing to me of the hill sloping down
below the window, and they know cats are waiting
so they are thankful for my gaoler’s perversity;

but they do not sing to me of death,
and do not know where the dead are,
they sing that they do not know what i want

with death and the dead and memory.
they show us that the sun shall shine again;
though it is winter, it shall shine warm

for us again, this the birds said
today. as they call so shall i follow
and sing no more of the dead

but every grave shall shine for me
and i shall need no memory –
that’s what the birds said

their fleeting notes as heavy as lead

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