My great grand uncle had a peculiar hobby.
He used to collect the feathers
of different kinds of birds
of different colours, from different places.
His bedroom, corridor and staircase
Were full of thousands of colourful, colourless feathers.
On the day of his death
Just before sunrise, at dawn,
My great grand uncle
went to the rooftop of his house
And threw the feathers into the morning air.
The feathers floated in the golden rays
of the rising sun.
Some of the feathers dropped near.
Some went far.
Some floated towards eternity, the sky.
No, it is not possible to write a story
on this subject
But some feathers are still floating
in the sky.
translated by the poet
~ from This Same Sky, A Collection of Poems from around the World,
Selected by Naomi Shihab Nye (Aladdin Paperbacks, 1992)
