Birds are a poem alive Written by Samuel Ludik September, 2025

Heaven without a heart

The heart came like winter winds,
Silent faces carved from stone.
They walked where rivers once sang,
Carry the cold in their marrow and bones.

Men not dawn, men, not prayer,
Their eyes were black wells.
Each step left the hollow voice,
Like the cylinder that refused all the pleading.

Above them, the birds that die,
Gray feathers with funeral dust.
Their wings slowly overcome, a broken hymn,
Their songs are unstable of frost from lack of confidence.

It seems that the sky itself is hard and faded,
Iron sheet of bruises and rupture.
Smooth sunlight like an unequal vow,
While I waited for the ground, the patient, wearing it.

Men fell first –
Not wounds, but from emptiness,
Their hearts are in the walls of the ice.
No love for failed breathing lighting,
No final blessing to pay the price.

The birds came down after that,
Fold in the dark with soft despair.
Each flutter whispered from the forgotten fields,
Every silence of prayer is too late for air.

And when the last shade was drifted,
Silence like glass fills the world.
I saw the heart with vacant eyes,
But he did not feel any tremors because the wings were immersed.

However, somewhere beyond the hills without life,
It may remain a secret pulse yet –
A seed of warmth, hidden dawn
This is expected to rise again.