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What freedom are you pining for? It's love's gift, this bondage of yours, For even wild freshets will roar Yet gently caress native shores.
In anger you 're yelling again: "I'm all by myself! I'm my own!" These speeches, they make twitch in pain In countless old graves
countless bones.
Still, punishing you would be wrong: Your words are but traces on sand As long as you rail at this land And blaspheme in your native
tongue.
No, the nightingale is not a bird
To outshine other birds on this earth.
But if there be no room in this world
For a nightingale's song I would choose death.
Losses must have a limit, we thought.
More news comes, though, like machine-gun bursts.
In America, a condor's been caught
That has lived in the wild. It's the last.
The last link in a line rudely broken.
Lightning in beak,
All poised to let fly,
With a prophet's contempt vast, unspoken
It looks our human race in the eye.