Estrella

I am
Either German and not
Italian or French. And not
Spanish.

All the
Little golden
Birds had at one time
Flitted among
The run-down fields. Faded. Now there
Is no way of
Knowing: at one time
The golden
Spaces were stars like his name
And he did not know it.

He does not.

I am waiting for the golden birds again
And all there is remains to be seen. There
Are papers fluttering across the
Trampled-cracked walkways
Like whitened wings.

Like stars.
Like his name.