Minutes and decades on their mayfly wings
I do not notice them until the sand
runs out. Another red bill in my hand
that I must pay. Each nightingale that sings
a different generation. Memory
says there were more birds once but still I hear
those notes, that hold me, still. A different year
a different lover. Or perhaps it's me.
How could I tell if it is I that change?
Some things are constant in me, but my heart
falls for each beauty, tender at the start
then bittersweet then doomed. I must arrange
these things thus. Die for love, and am reborn,
pressing my heart blood from each passing thorn.