swooned birds

In the season of birds constantly flying directly into my closed windows…

Recollection
–Eila Kivikk’aho
Words couldn’t move mountains
words weren’t even up to opening the door.

But when you’d gone,
I took them in, to shelter in the warmth,
like swooned birds that had hit the window.

And they never tire of singing.
And I keep on listening to them.