Songs of a Bulbul by Ali Al-Jamri

I am told of a bird, its songs like a flute, its plumes like a rose, chirps freely in the groves, flutters, perches, head tweaked, twitters carefree with pleasure.

I am told, of this bird, you must sit in its home, soak in the groves, be the ripples in the spring, feel the sun kiss your back, let the song stroke your ear.

I am told if this bird ever should be caged it ceases its song, its wings drooped and limp, it dies soon of heartbreak, a grey silence spreads. Any true lover must always stay a watcher, never be an owner, accept the bird is free.

I have also been told that once over lunch when a revolutionary relayed this story, a greybeard across from him guffawed, flicked the rice flecks from his fingers, picked at meat between his teeth, tweaked his head and grinned, back home, I sought these songbirds for my menagerie, they can be caged, and they sang jazz, they sang their sorrows and their souls, they sang their songs for me.

Since I have heard these things, ten silent years have passed but still I am unsure which holds the greater truth:

these songbirds, freely gathering, these songbirds, split in cages, these songbirds, their heads tweaked curiously.