ancient man, ancient man
what do you hold
in your sleeves?

in your sleeves
you are young,

you are youthful,
not a bird in search
of a final rest-,
nest-ing place.

your place is not
in the sun
in the sky
in the sidewalk.

in the warm embrace.

my bird, my bird,
ancient man,
you are my bird;
tell me,
what do you hold
in your feathered sleeves?