When you give a noble falcon
to a fussy old woman who knows nothing of falconry,
she will clip its wings short, for its own good.
Young man, where has your mother been
that your toenails have gotten this long?
Those talons are how the falcon hunts for its food.
The old woman fixes him tutmaj, dumpling stew.
He won’t touch it. Too good to eat my tutmaj, huh?
She ladles some broth and holds it to his beak.
Her anger builds, and suddently she pours
the laddle of hot soup over his head.
Tears come from those beautiful falcon eyes.
He remembers his former life, the king’s love-whisle,
the great circling over the ocean,
the distance that condense so quickly to a point.
Falcon tears are food for a true human being,
perfume for Gabriel.
Your soul is the king’s falcon,
who says, This old woman’s rage
does not touch my glory or my discipline.