I am sorry to not be sorry for writing a poem in Norwegian this time. I like to stick to one language on this blog (and I am more and more regretting it ain’t Norwegian!), but this is part of a longer poem that I am composing — in Norwegian, naturally. I will spare you all but this verse. A few months ago I woke up one lovely and happy morning just to learn, less happily so, that my garden bird had left for the south. Off for eternal pastures it was. So innocent, so fragile and so beautiful. Surely, you could tend it and it would trust you enough to hold your hand. To eat from it. Now dead on the ground, with its wings wrapped up nicely as if it had laid down with purpose. Perhaps for me to have the chance of a last goodbye. I imagined it was just the sweet morning slumber that had gotten hold of it for an extra moment. It would wake up any moment soon, for sure. I waited and waited, but it didn’t. Now I realize it won’t ever. It is dead. Further my imagination showed me how the sweet little bird had been escaping an eagles eyes and was seeking shelter in my protecting arms. How could it possibly know that an invisible wall separating us was to wipe it off the surface of this earth in the blink of an eye? Its route of escape turned out to be an ensnaring trap of death. I was the one who, in my careless caring, had fed it, for my own sake of pleasure, and with no thoughts of the potential consequences for the innocent one. The death bringing window: I was the one who put it there. My blame, then.
I shall stop before the imagination carries me off to a different world from which I might be slow to return to reality. For when it comes to the incident of a bird hitting the ground by my hand, I, as a mere human being, might not be capable of any compassion beyond that of perhaps a few seconds’ tilted eyebrows and a moment of sorrow, as I reflect on the puzzling beauty in the midst of the ugly happening. I wish it never happened, and I wish the little bird back. But the window is not going down. It seems I value my own needs over that of the bird. Rightfully I do so, and the fault is not with my values or with the window that surely I need. The fault is with the careless bonding that caused its sudden death.
In the end this works to make it all the greater, when the Bible claims that God, in his omnipotence, all his splendor and all his all, takes notice of every little bird that stoups to the ground. Innocence, purity and peace at heart to the very end in the midst of troubles. That is what we all are created for.
Till yonder, bird. Morning comes.