If only I had followed a new path
that moonshot morning
beneath the looming mountains
where willows swooned
and the foothills were kneeling down.

If only I had been listening,
I might have heard their voices
in the waves.

Instead, I turned away forever
to sleep in my small ship
and dream of birds.

Crows, for instance,
with their eyes of blown glass.

Swallows, dreaming
of an old black bull with mist
in its eyes and moss on its horns.

Or blackbirds, who rise in clouds
from the wild ravenous fields
of autumn.

Finally the dove,
who searches so long for an olive branch
she forgets who she is,
and retreats from the world,
to fly no more.

Yet the martyr remains,
without need any more for dreams
or for green birds.
He rises from his knees,
wipes his eyes,
and enters the crowded market at noon,
wearing his Sunday best.