A blue-feathered bird,
Sitting on my shelf,
Tells me a story
Not found in itself.
Of a poet and dead,
Of words that he said.
The poet was poor,
Only had words to pour.
The dead was once alive,
She was the king’s only tribe.
They met in shade,
No eyes, no blade.
He spoke in rhyme,
She gave him time.
No crown, no gold—
Just hands to hold.
The king knew
The poet’s affection—
For him, his daughter
Was no mere connection.
He ordered,
“Don’t ****, don’t spill the blood,
Write some words from the mud.
Hang him in the night,
When the moon will rise—
The poet’s will should die.”
She cried,
Yet they beat him
Till the night.
The story, never whole,
Remains told
By the blue-feathered bird.
The bird still sings, its voice not done,
Read the rest — there’s more than one.
