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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476070" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode To Bird Watching</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now <br>Let's look for birds! <br>The tall iron branches <br>in the forest, <br>The dense <br>fertility on the ground. <br>The world <br>is wet. <br>A dewdrop or raindrop <br>shines, <br>a diminutive star <br>among the leaves. <br>The morning time <br>mother earth <br>is cool. <br>The air <br>is like a river <br>which shakes <br>the silence. <br>It smells of rosemary, <br>of space <br>and roots. <br>Overhead, <br>a crazy song. <br>It's a bird. <br>How <br>out of its throat <br>smaller than a finger <br>can there fall the waters <br>of its song? <br>Luminous ease! <br>Invisible <br>power <br>torrent <br>of music <br>in the leaves. <br>Sacred conversations! <br>Clean and fresh washed <br>is this <br>day resounding <br>like a green dulcimer. <br>I bury <br>my shoes <br>in the mud, <br>jump over rivulets. <br>A thorn <br>bites me and a gust <br>of air like a crystal <br>wave <br>splits up inside my chest. <br>Where <br>are the birds? <br>Maybe it was <br>that <br>rustling in the foliage <br>or that fleeting pellet <br>of brown velvet <br>or that displaced <br>perfume? That <br>leaf that let loose cinnamon smell <br>- was that a bird? That dust <br>from an irritated magnolia <br>or that fruit <br>which fell with a thump - <br>was that a flight? <br>Oh, invisible little <br>critters <br>birds of the devil <br>with their ringing <br>with their useless feathers. <br>I only want <br>to caress them, <br>to see them resplendent. <br>I don't want <br>to see under glass <br>the embalmed lightning. <br>I want to see them living. <br>I want to touch their gloves <br>of real hide, <br>which they never forget in <br>the branches <br>and to converse with <br>them <br>sitting on my shoulders <br>although they may leave <br>me like certain statues <br>undeservedly whitewashed. <br>Impossible. <br>You can't touch them. <br>You can hear them <br>like a heavenly <br>rustle or movement. <br>They converse <br>with precision. <br>They repeat <br>their observations. <br>They brag <br>of how much they do. <br>They comment <br>on everything that exists. <br>They learn <br>certain sciences <br>like hydrography. <br>and by a sure science <br>they know <br>where there are harvests <br>of grain</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Pablo+Neruda">Pablo Neruda</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476070" data-title="Ode To Bird Watching de Pablo Neruda" data-description="Now 
Let's look for birds! 
The tall iron branches 
in the forest, 
The dense 
fertility on the ground. 
The world 
is wet. 
A dewdrop or raindrop 
shines, 
a diminutive star 
among the leaves. 
The morning time 
mother earth 
is cool. 
The air 
i..."></div>
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