Inhaling crisp air coming from the Pole,
I watch the geese move in their restless wiggle waggle
bound for the voyage and to fly away.
They feel the cold increasing, almost frost.
The sun shines low and blinds me,
with both eyes closed I listen to them call
as they start leaving for the South.
Sun can not blind a bird, you say.
I don’t want to believe you.
To me they close their eyes
the moment they leave ground. You
seem to know more about life than me, though.
Here all grows dead, the nights now cold,
we must have been forgotten,
I haven’t heard from anyone. December gray
has slowly moved up in the woods.
I can not blame the geese for leaving.
If I could fly, not blinded by the Sun
I’d follow them into adventure. If I could fly
and drift as free as feathers of a bird.
Today perhaps they’ll go away
and no one knows their destiny,
what makes them go there anyway.
Above us hours of ruffling wings.
A feather zigzags slowly down, a promise
to return in Spring, or maybe a goodbye for ever.
You try to reach for it but it gets lost in mist.
You can not catch a feather in free fall, I say.