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The Singing Bird | A Poem by Abraham Putra Rahardja

There are no words,
no more words to be said,
for the singing bird
had flown off the tree.

I sat at the window, looking,
looking through the glass,
watching the dried leaves
rustle with the evening breeze.

Through an opened mouth,
an opened mouth through which
no sound nor breath escaped,
I sang a tune of sorrow.

Inanimate and soundless,
A clock stood, still and timeless
indifferent to the desires,
the seductions of tomorrow.

I felt the air around me,
stifling and cold it was,
wrapping around me,
awakening me with it’s kiss

I awoke at the window, looking,
looking through my eyes,
watching the singing bird
gradually ascending, disappearing.

There are no more words,
no more words to be said,
for the singing bird
had flown off the tree.


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