I am no hunter,
I’m a dreamer.
I do not know,
The ways of death.
I am no eagle,
I’m a blackbird,
I sing a song,
By fine-placed wreath.
For worlds do not on hunters stand,
Nor on eagles marked by fame,
These things all, and things all claimed,
We’d do without them, all the same.
I do not on the firm ground stand,
No those that stand there know no place;
I’ve placed my feet on different land,
And walk the earth there at my pace.
I walk on clouds that walk my mind,
And there the skies above I watch,
And all that walk below are blind;
They do not see the blackbirds hatch.
They do not see the people born,
Born intō the clouds and torn.