Their wise songs have gone, dashed against cliffs. Wiping off dewdrops from grass lips, the day stretches till its grayness splits. A bird sings from a branch. Both are plastic.

In the land of the natives, they drink rain at noon.Their singing is a belch of hunger twangs.

Their songs sleep in a textbook. A river serenades the school.

No one remembers how to swim. Under a real tree is a real boy playing with a bird wing and not knowing how to be unreal he will be thrashed to death. Before that, he will sing mad songs.

Feathers will burst from clouds.There will be more rain for dinner.
Let us now make the bird sing its plastic song and burn the body.

Some night remains in little eyes. Small bodies walk in sleep, brushing teeth
yet the water never touches their dreams.

The buried, hungry babies never come to life.
Sadness is merely 
a yanked-off and transparent, floating dragonfly wing.