strutting on scarlet feet

The sparrows
Leonard Cohen

Catching winter in their carved nostrils
the traitor birds have deserted us,
leaving only the dullest brown sparrows
for spring negotiations.

I told you we were fools
to have them in our games,
but you replied:
They are only wind-up birds
who strut on scarlet feet
so haplelessly far
from our curled fingers.

I had moved to warn you,
but you only adjusted your hair
and ventured:
Their wings are made of glass and gold
and we are fortunate
not to hear them splintering
against the sun.

Now the hollow nests
sit like tumors or petrified blossoms
between the wire branches
and you, an innocent scientist,
question me on these brown sparrows:
whether we should plant our yards with breadcrumbs
or mark them with the black persistent crows
whom we hate and stone.

But what shall I tell you of migrations
when in this empty sky
the precise ghosts of departed summer birds
still trace old signs;
or of desperate flights
when the dimmest flutter of a colored wing
excites all our favorite streets
to delight in imaginary spring.

Em movimento contrário ao dos pássaros traidores, nos encontramos. Agora, na volta das asas que se pavoneiam sobre pés escarlate, finalmente Abril. Pigeon Guillemot. E nós, os que estamos aqui, ogling each other's windows, tão aborrecidamente castanhos como os pardais.

I Wonder How Many People in This City
Leonard Cohen

I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when I look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me,
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down.