With Plumage of the Southern Night

With plumage of the southern night A bird flew into my repose. She will not flee to freedom's height. "Then sit and sing," to her I chose.

If you should scratch glass with a nail, The sound grows sweeter, more refined... She scrapes with claws, and feathers flail, Her plumage standing on end—unkind.

I see: this force is not from God. My voice trembles as I speak: "What is your name?" Through all this trod, She answers: "Worry—I am bleak. Now I shall dwell with you always..."

"But why? Don't be an unbidden guest! Fly away while dawn's light still plays!" Yet she pours sorrow by the chest, And hisses like a serpent's maze: "N-o-o-o."

But another bird strains for the fight, Filling my small world with flame! Prayer's wings are radiant, bright. My home awakens—transformed its name.

No darkness dwells within its door, No poverty or want remains. Somewhere crows wheel and soar. If worry nests within your veins— Drive her out with prayer's refrain!