And it was evening, and it was morning
of the third day
of my finding
a very small dead bird on my doorstep.

And all around the springtime was springtime,
halloo of living green and copper-bright
feast of desires and flowers cupped and white
hallelujahs of roses of crimson.
Unmoving bird on my doorstep
a tiny bundle of death,
an airmail letter with no air.

On the first day
I thought that I would hear over my head
the whirring of desperate wings
the lamentations of the evacuated nest.
I am innocent, I whispered
(sweeping him off in a shroud of newspapers),
the back of my neck bent for the beak-stroke.

And springtime was springtime.

On the second day
I covered him fast
with a white plastic cup
attentive for the wingbeat of the shadow
to swoop down and to extinguish my daylight.

And springtime was springtime.

On the third day
number three waited for me
at the same hour and in the same place,
like a dead spirit yelling for revenge, spirit unborn,
stubbed out like an exclamation mark.

What were they like, poet?

I do not know.
Suddenly a violent wind blasted
from the impure doorstep
and shoved aside my head.

What were they like, poet?

I do not know.
At a tense arm's length
as one observes the slithering away of a dream
I did what is already forgotten

What were they like, poet?

One tiny yellow, point,
some inarticulate hints of grayish wing,
two black pinpoints,
blind striking mockery,
eyes, eyes, the malice of the eyes -

What were they like, poet?

But I do not know.
And the springtime is springtime all round,
there is a heaven between me and them.

The fourth day.

And now what is on me that I shall do?
Shall I lock myself up inside this house?
Should I streak out of it with my eyes shut?

I did not treat them right.
I sit without moving,
my eyes are blinking without cease
like flying dark to light, light into dark. At the front door I hear
a siege of chirrupings

And if another messenger comes
I will lament seven
complete minutes
at the bedhead of that shriveled head
at the foot of the crumpled feet
and I will look at him
close, very close,
until the strength is in me and in flower
to bury him gently.

Translated by Peter Levi; taken from Ariel 45/46, 1978.