Three Voices

The cloud of dusk gathers in the room.

The shadows of night are growing, tamed desire.

On the radio, Mahler’s Song of the Earth.

Outside the window, blackbirds whistle, carefree and loud.

And I can hear the soft rustling

of my blood (as if snow were sliding down the mountains).

These three voices, these three alien voices,

are speaking to me but they don’t

demand anything, they make no promise.

In the background, somewhere

in the meadow, the cortege of night,

full of hollow whispers, forms

and re-forms, trying to get in order.