Late in the evening behind my darkened window
I feel lost. A foreign land,
perhaps even a foreign planet
is my prison.
Then I recall the bird, a crow, that
perched on the curved peak
of a promenade streetlamp in the icy wind
and watched the day.
With wondrous calm he controlled the world.
Time and the traffic went as he wanted: a minute
lasted a minute, precisely, an hour an hour,
people bent to the wind —
to their fate, labouring towards their goals —
which the crow simply wafted to, on the gale,
wavering, yes, but flying with no thought
he was flying.
Late evening. I´m thinking. Not flying.