Blackbird

A blackbird sat on the TV antenna

and sang a gentle, jazzy tune.

Whom have you lost, I asked, what do you mourn?

I’m taking leave of those who’ve gone, the blackbird said,

I’m parting with the day (its eyes and lashes),

I mourn a girl who lived in Thrace,

you wouldn’t know her.

I’m sorry for the willow, killed by frost.

I weep, since all things pass and alter

and return, but always in a different form.

My narrow throat can barely hold

the grief, despair, delight, and pride

occasioned by such sweeping transformations.

A funeral cortege passes up ahead,

the same each evening, there, on the horizon’s thread.

Everyone’s there, I see them all and bid farewell.

I see the swords, hats, kerchiefs, and bare feet,

guns, blood, and ink. They walk slowly

and vanish in the river mist, on the right bank.

I say goodbye to them and you and the light,

and then I greet the night, since I serve her—

and black silks, black powers.