Pigeons
There are many pigeons in the Cascais evening park and
see one I remember, the one that trips stylishly around
looking for crumbs, it looks at me, to see if I´m eating.
In May it was a baby on my terrace trying out its wings,
one day it succeeded and flew off.
A pigeon doesn’t remember its childhood, so it doesn’t
has the burden of remembering infancy, blames no one
when things go wrong. Two women come and sit on my
bench, talk about offspring who will not listen; pity they
have not understood, like a pigeon mother, to let go.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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