Child, be still and listen,
for a wild wind blows
and we’re at the edge of the roof.
Your fathers are gone,
they stepped out of their hearts,
left them drifting in the air
like plastic bags.

All their letters to you are lies,
all photographs empty of light.
You can burn all the books,
break all the cameras,
no one reads here— sight
is deprived of vision.

I know that darkness,
it is a blank. It blurs
the lens of our soul.
We, my little winged lion,
suffered the reverse
of what happened
on the road to Damascus.
We lost our flame in the dust.
Mirrors left a hole
where our faces were before
and we went on taking
pictures of it, dissolving
always more.

Now we sleep under dry stars
where there are no mysteries,
hungry for this aura
that is yours uniquely.
It looks like the first apple
we washed for you
in the Hanging Gardens,
golden-red and imperishable.
It is unbearable.

Child, the wind hardens,
put that gun down and listen.
The last thing worth killing
is your fresh heart — greener
than green will ever be.
It is the only annunciation,
the sole chance
to correct our fall.

After it stiffens, nothing
— no one.

Whoever put that weapon
in your hand knew it,
avid to hurl the nightmare
straight into the camera,
knowing no other song.

Listen — How poor we are
when our majestic dreams
compare to nothing
but names of birds, extinct.
The wind whips, bury them
in dust, then holds its breath.

Child, hear the wind blow,
nothing is lost yet.
A psalm says — Awake,
I have become
a lonely bird on the rooftop,
a lion with the wings
of an eagle.
Know the song.
You are the song.