Bird Angels

The birds used to come to the square then. No one knew where
they lived, but they arrived by the dozen with the first stripe of

dusk, ate from our hands as we crumbled hours that had turned
brittle with waiting, minutes baked into bread with the salt of tears,

pieces of us, dark, dark from wanting the light. When birds consume
our fears, our memories, when our shadows slip down their throats,

their feet turn white, their wings grow wide, they turn into angels
that deny the night. When pain is scattered like seeds, they flutter

down, impatient moons in rapid descent, eager for stories, that can
never be told. Last night I saw you alone by the fountain, more

silhouette than man, your fist full of broken dreams, the sky above
you empty. I knew that you had heard the silence. Birds fed on angst

and agony and sin, that learn about love and eyes and separation,
birds of our dusk can become white angels but they never sing again.

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39 thoughts on “Bird Angels

  1. You amaze me. Most of us run from the pain of loss and absence. But again, you turn it into a thing of exquisite beauty with your words and imagery, yet retain all the sorrow and pain it holds. Thank you,

    Elizabeth

    Liked by 1 person

  2. But, if everyone got the life and love they imagined and wanted, that would be a “perfect” world. And we would be perfect people within it. Ain’t happening. If the world and we were perfect, there would be no need to choose anything. We would not need to learn anything. And to me, that sounds really boring. Why live and breathe at all? What would be the point? And yes, there would be no poetry and that thought scares me more than a perfect world.

    Elizabeth

    Liked by 1 person

  3. What a phrase, Rajani, ‘the first stripe of dusk’! And a wonderful image of birds arriving by the dozen. I also love the lines:
    ‘…ate from our hands as we crumbled hours that had turned
    brittle with waiting, minutes baked into bread with the salt of tears’
    and
    ‘… Last night I saw you alone by the fountain, more
    silhouette than man’.

    Like

  4. Oh that ending…..”birds of our dusk can become white angels but they never sing again.” Whew, your poem is evocative, intense, and takes me on an interpretive journey trying to decipher all of its nuances.

    Like

  5. This speaks to me of the alchemy of artists to turn something terrible into something majestic, all the while acknowledging that some of that original ache will always be a part of the mosaic.

    Like

  6. “Birds fed on angst/and agony…” and the closing choked me a bit. Some truths, some beautiful truths, hurt so much. Changing and adapting are wonderful things–too often necessary–but they can cost… nearly everything one is.

    Like

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