The Best Part Of My Day

He Will Not Drown His Sorrows

If only I knew more about the human heart,

I could fuel its fire or stamp it out

completely. If only I knew more

about songbirds, I could tell you

exactly what is singing there unseen

in that tree across the street – that song

has been , so far, the best part of my day,

a song as old as our four-chambered hearts,

older maybe, a melody composed a million

years ago and never altered surely

musical genius thrived before the wheel,

before our weapons and our calculus,

and when we're gone that song

will continue in the trees and will not change.

But we know that song, too. We were born

with its notes and rests transcribed

in the cells of our own warm blood

and we've sung it more or less

unsuccessfully in a hundred-odd cities

between us, lone birds in full throat,

joyous and unheard. And we've fallen

silent, sullen, drunk, when our song

has failed too often. But not that bird

across the street – he will not drown

his sorrows, because he has none.

He will sing until his lady comes or,

in her place, his death, always proud, always

singing, and you know as well as I do

what he does not feel: the bitterness

of solitude, and you also understand

there are times when, if I could catch him,

I would break his neck and end it

so he will not have to sing his song alone.

– Paul Vermeersch