When in the beak of a bird I saw a memory of mine

I sit alone and think of someone who once

wished to eat embers from my hands.

Maybe I’m wrong and all he wanted was to chew on tulip petals.

He could always pop up

from behind a tree or a street corner,

dressed in a coat the color of dandelions,

stitched with star threads.

He could carry a bouquet of birds:

blackbirds, sparrows, titmice…

Asked if he is well and happy

he would reply that he is fine,

spending his eternity in a letter box

listening to the patter of the rain.


Also by Réka Nyitrai

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