Cuckoo
In the company of death, the face of the day is getting ever more black,
Like a black shadow of the valley of death,
It ominously looms above the deathbed
And closes life into a senseless shell.
You, who knows how to watch,
You, who sees traces
That others cannot see,
On your hearse drowned in a rain of tears,
You can see the birth of a new butterfly,
You can fly up to the sky,
From which there is such a wonderful view of
The old oak's trembling barren hands
That still have the strength to hold the children of
The valley of your youth.
When nostalghia falls upon tear stained eyes,
You once again become young,
Your heart beats faster again,
And voices itself to spite death.
From the hearse, the gaze never meets the clock,
Because death is never late.
When the cuckoo comes out of the old wall clock,
You, who can see traces others cannot see,
You can see a tiny tear
In its small wooden eyes,
Because it leaves for its tiny wooden home,
Just like your life.
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Submitted on August 23, 2016
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 55 sec read
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Quick analysis:
Scheme | X A X X X X B X C C D X D X E X X A F X F B X E X X |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 941 |
Words | 184 |
Stanzas | 26 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1 |
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"Cuckoo" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/68768/cuckoo>.
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