Matthias moves in minor
among dark trees;
under the canopy,
boughs that bend heavy,
finds the song left
by our ancestors.
Once,
a wild bird sat on a branch,
sang for herself alone.
A rich man, wrapped
in his thick fur cloak
offered silk and gold
if she would sing
for his pleasure.
The young bird flew
to the farthest field, sang
through the winter’s night—
hoar-frost bound her foot
and wing.
There, if you look,
lying bleached among stones
are the bones of farmers’ daughters,
fled from their villages.
Fathers would not look—
they took the parcels,
silken shirts and hair combs
tied with string,
stamped their anger
into the ground,
planted root vegetables
far down, where winter
could not touch them.
So sing
for those who lay down
with their masters, sing
for those who flew—
who rest beyond
the steepled towns
and sing for no one.
An earlier version of this poem first appeared in Room Magazine, volume 30.2