I have to draw myself a little bird,
In this chamber compressed with cold air.
It has to be color red,
Radiant each sheath with fervent fire.
Its velvet feather touches my cheek,
Pecking my lips is its tiny beak.
I slit open my thumb,
A drop of blood seeps from the wound,
Gliding down to the palm.
The dry brush licks the small cascade,
What a huge strength will that bird have!
I have long for it to live.
Tough it a life so true,
Soft into its eyes comes a spot of light.
The cage window I open through,
Waiting for it to leave with delight.
While it is remaining still,
“Forget”,I sigh, “it’s not real”.
