Turkish smugglers caught him in the wild
and trapped him in a veiled cage,
hung in a cafe.
Deprived of light,
the goldfinch mourned, his song
a prayer of lament. Sorrow breeds melodies.
Pipe smoke wafted through the room.
The men meditated; they puffed nostalgic rings
into the air. The goldfinches’ plaintive song
lingered and soared, towards mates and meadows.
What will warm up these darkened souls?
We perfect our yearning by death.
For the lack of a God, we distill visions
from tiny throats.