This little bird flew in, beating its wings
Straight for the orchard.
O what white snow fell from the cherry tree, then!
Soon as it sang, sobbing out
Grief in gold,
It had a song that echoed and rolled.
And it sobbed and grieved so, this little bird,
All through the orchard.
Its voice, silver now, swelled and swelled.
Snow drifted in, then lifted.
Next I thought I heard
This bird in mournful words calling,
Calling me in, where the whole orchard
Held snow in fresh, tender branches
And a breeze ran reckless, as it
Kept calling me back there, this little bird,
Where it was hurt to the heart,
Aching more than anyone alone could bear.
(Jonas Aistis)
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