The Last Bird Poem by L.B. Temuco

Some days he wakes
like today
with such a preposterous sense of well being
he finds himself sitting in a field
of splendid colours
there are skylarks and swallows
in the breaking sky

Then his thoughts turn to her
to her ridiculous beauty
to the wanton thorns in her
She is always in a film
She presses herself against the glass
until she is wet
and music fills her limbs

He wants to say to her 'it's OK, just to say no'
You do not have to waste yourself on me
You do not have to sit there
and say in an unexpected moment
that you are happy
and then fly away
like the last bird