How can I tell you how I feel?
What language shall I use?
You won't let me be until
I tell you what is wrong.
Shall I borrow the ice
Of the penguins?
Or the snow of
Polar Bears?
Shall I speak with the
Black of a crow?
Or shall I whisper with
The dark of a cave?
How shall I tell you where I hurt?
Can I cry it out with the tears
Of every storm cloud in the sky?
Can I pour it out with the
Blood of a gushing wound?
What metaphor, fable, rumor, or irony,
Will fully express my deepest
Regrets and least tiring wishes?
Speech is as weak as a bird
With a broken wing,
And as lazy as the wind on a
Still, calm day.
Oh, how my heart is exhausted!
I'd really rather not tell you
At all.
But, as you must have an answer,
Or you will not go away,
What answer can I give you
That will be sufficient for
Your raging, ravenous appetite,
But will be safe enough
That all the "little birds"
In the world could do no
Damage with it?
You are a beast, a lion,
To put me on the spot
Like this.
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