Long before our time they called her old,
But she'd walk down the same road every day.
Her age became too much to say
In years — and, like a forest's, would be told
In centuries. She comes to stand at dusk —
Her spot each time the same — and to foretell.
She is a hollow, wrinkled husk,
Dark as a fire-gutted citadel.
She has to turn her flock of talking loose
Or it will grow too crowded to relieve.
Flapping and screaming, words are flying all
Around her. Then, returning home to roost,
They find a perch beneath her eyebrows' eaves,
And in that shadow wait for night to fall.
I would love to hear some peoples' interpretation of this poem!
I think it's about the sun, literally, and about the perceived futility of how we spend our days.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think it's about the sun, literally, and about the perceived futility of how we spend our time or the days.