The Thorn / Michael Kwack

It seemed a big bird had flown;

For, onto the desk of my own,

A feather was falling,

Through the air fluttering.

As if in a dream did I gaze:

A tiny bird it was!

I stretched an arm,

And the bird got on my palm.

The whole body, in bright gold,

Was the wing of this bird.

Should I hold it on my palm?

Let it go afloat in...

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Leisurely and alone,

I was wandering in the museum garden.

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Flowers were completely gone,

But deep green summer leaves fully grown,

And on each branch

Small birds all the way chirping:

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Certainly for me a perfect afternoon

To be seated still and calm,

To be lost in poem-reciting!

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But suddenly a wind arose

When a human voice caught my ear,

Saying low ye...

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