In summer the song sings itself
yet in December the river grows quiet-- the trees lonely.

No one would notice the blue if not for emptiness.
Silence, a voice without letters.

If we took lessons from the lark we’d leave.
In our mouths we’d place the last feather, hold it in our teeth.

Memory has no room for winter, the whole season forgets.
Even you, my darling do not remember.

If my name found the feather, if in your mouth
was a nest, we'd begin.