It hatches out of a thrown-out stone and
it acts as the pupil of a blind sky,
a little bit of life which has truly taken off
from our wingless bent-over shoulders.
Oh strange bird whose purpose
is to be the flight of the ground and song
of the deserted sky, which can be heard but it doesn't realize it. Oh, you white
courting of the wind to the flame-bird.
You bird walled up into brain and wall
never met by the sight
found by the hearing inside forest spaces,
in our ears your death was conceived.
Oh you stone-bird may the night cry out for you
to the warm, unreasonable stars.
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