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THE BAY

My soul, the wizard, need you yet another accolade?
Rejoice - what you foretold is more or less what came to be:
This time it was in earnest - I prevailed against the void,
I rose, left, built a house, and now a goldfinch stays with me.
He's small and still naive, and seven notes is all he's got
so far, but two of these he picked up from a nightingale.
Were I to blame someone, of him I would have never thought.
He's just like you, my soul - a singer, and he is in jail... 
                                    He is in jail, he is in jail...

October. Empty time. The hollow days stretch out like walls.
The beach is dead - no fisherman, no boat at sea, none moored.
What kind of somber sleep upon this land in winter falls,
I'm able to imagine, but can hardly say for sure.
The daytime haze is humid and my head already aches.
The bay is not of water, rather mercury or lead.
The goldfinch, looking out the window, says "alas!" to chicks
and birds, though he himself is but a chick, my little pet...
                                    My little pet, my little pet...

Each line has got a mate, two fragments make a perfect match.
The draft is done - clean copy, and the strings take up their role.
But no! A new finale bids my quill suspend its touch.
Alas, my soul! I cannot help it, I'll erase it all.
I'll throw away the lead, I'll bury deep the hollow days,
I'll move the beaches and the bay around, mile after mile,
I'll turn October into May... but one thing I'll delay:
I'll leave the goldfinch in his cage and let him sing meanwhile... 
                                    He'll sing meanwhile, he'll sing meanwhile...