Robin

A sickly robin stopped in the tree outside my room. I looked at him for a very long time before returning to my book. When I began to read, I found I could not concentrate, for my mind was on the robin and his rumpled feathers and sad—oh, such a sad—face. What did he remind me of? A lost love, perhaps? That always brings sadness to my gut. It was possible, but I think he called to mind something else. Something I could not put my finger on—not quite. I turned back to the window, to find my friend, but he was gone. He could not have flown far, his wing was so bent and fragile. I scanned the other trees, but they were empty of life. Only the wind whistled through. The loneliness of the trees, and the bird, and my room, yawned into a great and spellbinding force. All was still. It was a pristine moment for me: a perfect crystallization of that feeling of separation—of each cell being divided from the others by a clean and unbreakable square—that haunted my dreams. I cried out, startled, but no one could hear. I shut my eyes and imagined the robin whistling me to sleep.

Heigh-ho, how the robin flies!
The star in your eyes
Found its way to other friends.

I pointed the way for the prophet,
But he only shook his head
And let his curls tumble down.

When the angels sang a chorus,
I forgot the words:
All I could do was sneeze.

God bless you, gentle soul!
Your wits have scattered like asters
In the virgin meadow:
How populous the flowers in that field!
How crazy the sun beating down!

How the chorus of yawning angels could cry!
You had a tear in your eye when you left the room.
It wasn’t the sound of Holys so much
As it was the sweet saturation of glorious love.