A little birdie, in her flight to the north,
slipped beneath my door and left a fair warning:
“The fire is soon to die; he lost his light in the storm.”
She shook the black ash from her wings and took off into the wind.
Powerless now, I can only give you my words…
Listen to me, my singing flame—
did you know that you were my disaster?
For your passion puts to shame anything I can ever paint.
A god? No…
The gods know not the sting of their own arrogance;
Your modesty binds you to this earth…
But an artist… yes, an artist, you are
an almighty roman fortress, a blossom in a cherry tree,
that cloudy shape in the dull summer sky that spoke to me,
and you were my singing flame whose kind verses kindled a blaze.
Do you remember me? I was your shadow as you crawled through the desert…
I could see your black velvet halo—
those ancient vultures circling above your head.
(I heard them, love… I heard them—
and they’ll talk shit,
and they’ll talk with a temper,
they’ll eat you, dead or alive,
if you let them bother.)
But oh, my dying artist,
when their dreadful screeches are all you hear: I’ll be your mockingbird.
(Because a shadow needs her casting flame
and even gods, in time, yearn for an oasis’s cool embrace.)
Beautiful, I love what you do—
so do what you do,
and let no one stop you.
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