Last night at nine-thirty the birds were still singing.
By four-thirty this morning they were at it again.
Who was last? Who was first? Do they know?
Does it change from one night to the next?
Does it mean anything to them?
Or do they simply go out like lights?
And rise in the morning to relieve the stars?
And what of the man who is miserable and important, who is miserable because of his importance, and important in his mind because of his misery, which he wears like armor and is afraid to remove? Does he not also go out like a light? And make way for a sweet child to rush in?