A kite is a victim you can be sure of.
You love it because it pulls
slowly enough to call you master
strong enough to call you mad;
because it lives
desperate like a trained hawk
in the high and sweet air,
and you can always call it back
and lock it in a drawer.
A kite is the fish you've already caught
in the tank where fish don't come,
so you play with it carefully, for a long time,
and hope it doesn't give up,
or that the wind doesn't die down.
A kite is the last poem you've written,
so you entrust it to the wind,
but you don't let it go
until someone finds you
something else to do.
A kite is a pact of glory
to be made with the sun,
so you befriend the field
the river and the wind,
and you pray, for the whole cold previous night,
under the wandering moon that goes without a string,
to make yourself worthy and lyrical and pure.
Of course: L'aquilone
Leonard Cohen
