Ode to the Blackbird

It was possibly winter then, was it?
May be the last traces of autumn, withering away on the trailing east winds

Doesn't matter really, the off shades of white cloth that draped my fig is what I remeber.

At that moment , where nature scoffed,

at that moment when all wars seemed to come to an end, not a peaceful one;

a more imposed cohabitation- life met the dead

At that moment, I found a blackbird.

It perched its nest on the highest branch of the fig ;

as if announcing its omniscience, or indifference maybe,

I do not know. I don't.

It brought some blackened hay, and twigs of maples and laurels, and sealed it with wet vines.

The nest seemed like a spiral of questions,

it seemed to give some answers too, which I got much later.

Two weeks it stayed, two weeks I had to voyeur the life of somebody not like me.

Somebody very much like me, in some ways.

Not an ounce of roots it had, to anything, at all.

Three eggs I found one Saturday, greyish tinges of black, whispering of their age - unborn.

Whispering their wisdom – they know things.

I wondered how can something be so “knowing”, an infant, more so.

When they first hatched out, eyes glistening with fluid connecting them to life.

To my surprised they seemed exhausted, unhappy, but as if smirking at everything around them.

I looked at them every passing day, now they knew how to fly.

And one early summer morning, they never came back.

Flight took them with the wind.
They can be somewhere looking for high fig branch.
Somewhere else.
What matters is the nest, really.

The spiral of questions and some answers made of dead things.

What would you call a nest to which no birds return?