Some little bird
sang,
spoke two, three words
and shat on the terrace, ashine with sun.
So this little bird,
still a matchbox
that outgrew its wingspan.
His eyes only half phosphoric grains.
From the small shit
grew a four-leaf
clover:
our luck speaks in an animal language
and in the language of good digestion,
outdoing its causes
and not choosing the spot where I would land.
It must keep quiet, truly:
if he mentions
the sun above us,
it changes
into golden gallows.
Translated by: Brian Henry