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My scarf is stained with the canary’s blood.
Its wings flutter directly above.
A deafening song about melancholy.
I begin to run.
My heart tangles, the muscles contract,
I am breathless with pain.
I’m angry at myself.
My eyes, so pathetically shallow, limited, one-dimensional
Can only see half of the world.
I hate myself because
I have forgotten to turn around.
I have remained
On the ground.
The beautiful canary bird
Its deranged joy dancing off its open cage
A door it sees.
The silence around, surrounds,
Is a deep sin.
Watching its departure
The shining feathers, shine and shine
Flashing a deafening song of
The beautiful canary bird will not return.
Its master’s cold hands, the careless release
A life of imprisonment and its
Blind surrender to the greedy eagle’s claw.
Falling, falling towards
The point where light meets darkness
A tear in its eyes
Falling, falling a bloody fall
Slowly, and slowly
By Kim T. (translated from a Chinese poem I’ve written earlier today)