No one knows where I'm going,
not even me. Although that owl
I heard outside last night might
lead me to the terrain and call out
the custodians so they can
surround and welcome me, or
do whatever they want to do. I won't
speak, won't say my name even if
they try to coerce me, or play
unearthly music, such as sailors
hear far out on the Atlantic, in fog
so thick they venture to climb it
to reach clear sky. Some do and speak
of large blue birds that glide there
silently as ghosts, but those men
return too damaged to speak much
or stay above ground very long.
The owl could tell more, if he wanted,
but he won't. And not only that,
he's decided he will never be seen.
Matthew Sweeney (6-10-1952/5-8-2018), "The Owl"
(incompleto - a publicar, inteiro, no próximo número da Poetry Magazine)
