At dusk, to peck at what remains of their day
All prodigals return to some tree as birds.

From the meadows of reminiscences a drove
Of regret rises: as poetry! as birds!

Now that they have renamed that last street;
Lost-we must leave this country as birds

Desperate to make it to some place safe
Some voices flit, across history, as birds

How easy it would be to fall for your snares
Had we too but no memory as birds!