Outside my window darted the birds that know the branches.
They know little of Brussels, of war, of divide or plunder.
They run across invisible tracks – here and there and I think playing with the sky.
They sing because they have a song.
And I watch them before I hit another key.
Before I construct, I watch the dance.
Before I pound on the concrete desk, I watch the wooden world wake.
New and life and maybe someone has put songs in the birds.
Maybe someone put the lyrics in their dreams.
Tossing and turning these birds have a song of children.
It’s strong but not violent.
It’s complex but uncomplicated.
It’s hopeful but real.
It’s the song of passover.
Eat, drink, remember.
Somber and resilient.
Sad and yet sure.
Broken passover song, teach us flight for the cold and weary.