The Things I Say

When I fold my mouth closed
like eyes (with all its secrets)
to say the things I want to say,

words always fall towards the sky
and maybe a little farther.

So they soar
like birds
lost in the echoes of translation.

Sometimes, I want to know
what else in the world
(with all its strange creations)
is bound to wings and feathers too.
For really, I don't know how to see them:
things so carefully made to fade and wither

in the blue, blue wind. But
through my ears closed with open palms,
I still hear the muffled bells of departures ring -

or is it just the birds singing?