by Pesakh Vayland
The slowness comes from his white intent
colorful birds with their flutter and trill
have their joy in high noisy play.
God told the swan to lie low and be still.
So waits Michaelangelo’s imprisoned slave
All shores come to him and touch,-
The swan must lead his white longing
from shore to shore over green and gray rippled pond.
Silent, without fingers he plays on water keys,
plays with his entire body.
The sounds sink somewhere deep.
His high song will be known by death alone.