The last two birds in Hanoi
A real estate agent and I chatting,
Inspecting his newest and finest flat,
Five-storey bloc on West Lake Promenade;
Sliding doors open onto the balcony,
Sunlight lazy on the fat and shiny water.
We talk, we consider, we know each other,
Money and years passed through our hands.
Two sparrows skip about out there:
The last two birds in Hanoi.
All of a sudden soft bird whistles is heard;
He flings out an arm, eyes roll heavenward:
What more in the whole wide world
Could you ever want: live birdtwitter,
A free bonus included in the rental.
I say, it could be a sound recording,
A reasonable reply in these parts,
Synthetic birdvoices, sensor activitated;
He looks insulted, but this is play.
We move in, put flowerpots on the balcony;
A sparrow couple visits now and then:
The last two birds in Hanoi.
Every Sunday morning by the lakeside
On benches in cafés, on small squares,
Arrive young men with covered cages
Held in one hand on scooterrides;
They're suspended from lines in trees,
Where the birds are fed, nursed and tended;
Men sip coffee, smoke fags, and listen,
Relishing sounds from a period gone by,
A competition of birdsong belle canto;
Maybe our sparrow couple drops by:
The last two freebirds in Hanoi.
I try to recall, I ask my love:
Were there gulls on the lake, crows in garbage,
Were there finches and tits in the trees,
Were there falcons and herons in the air?
Do we remember? Were there, really?
My love says, birds are in the countryside,
And uses a word to say bumpkin country,
Maybe she also mean to say bumpkin birds;
Not unfriendly, not anti-avian, not at all,
Just habitat-conditioned megacity language;
They've probably eaten them all, she says;
Except those on our balcony:
The last two birds in Hanoi.
Last Updated on 2 uger by Jacob Gammelgaard