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Lyrics
V. The end of Spring
Now that spring, irrevocable and resolute,
has come as we come, slow
and naked, to certain conclusions,
I go back to visit the park.
Everything here speaks of new life
though everything dies a little each day.
Comparing spring and youth
isn’t enough,
and this park full of life
cannot be taken as a metaphor
for what you experience day by day.
At dusk the rays of the sun
filter through branches of the trees
and the leaves are still changing color
though they’ll soon be in the ground, just like you.
And the buildings in the background
look like stone giraffes nailed to the horizon.
This is the moment when the pigeons,
calmer, exhausted, flock together.
All this new life exhausts you too,
while a bird sings a sad metallic note
in the grove, and you guess
there’s something the trees know
that permits no response.
What is the mystery of the birds that fly
at this time of day? Where are they going?
Do those who die have a foreboding
that this will be their last twilight,
that their wings will not fan the air again?
Is that why they fly straight into the sun
as if they wanted to melt in its image?
Because you don’t fly like a bird,
although you die as they do,
you’d like to know what undeciphered message
hides in the birdsong,
the melody you don’t understand.
No, tell yourself again: The miracle
of spring is much deeper than that.
There is an inexactitude in May leaves
as if green know nothing of tedium.
The bird that flies, the bird that sings, the sun that sets
have no meaning except the obvious one.
Dear heart, there are certain questions that harbor no
answers—
let yourself be lost in the miracle of the moment.
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