Clay birds

In case time drags me to barren shores,
today I close shut the book of dead hours.

I sculpt clay birds.
I sculpt clay birds, and I make them fly.

In case time drags me to barren shores,
today I reject the lowliness of abandon and despair.

No more blank pages!
I feel the bewilderment of a lonesome wanderer.

I get lost in the maps, I sail through their pages.
Now the wind blows, now that the ocean is far behind.

I no longer climb the hill that leads me to your place,
and my dog no longer cuddles by your embers.
Feelings nestle in the corners of time.
Today they are clay birds longing to fly.

I get lost in the valleys. I sleep on the road.
Now the wind blows, now that the ocean is far behind;
now that I don't have a boat, oars, nor a guitar;
now that the nightingale no longer sings.