He looked through the window and dreamt with being an astronaut walking on the moon
and the sky was cruised by galleons, dolphins, comets, feluccas.
And at the blackboard the teacher dictated theoremes.
In his head the song of a sparrow could be heard, birds in the head.

He was always late from school after detention for never being where he ought
and waiting for him at home were tedium and dinner served up on the table.
In the background the white noise of a TV set and mother sighing.
"Where are you son? Always in the clouds," and nobody listens to the news.

Birds in the head and flying away
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dreaming
of still finding lightning bolts with you,
even if time and sand obscure the way to you.

Time went by and we all grew
—well, not all, some still
looked through the window and flying over
the blue carpet of the office.
At work he still got lost
in the jungles of his dreams
and a scream named him and scratched
and it broke the sweet charm.

Mother still served the soup,
"When will you settle down, my son?
Someday we'll open your head and a murder of crows
will escape from it".

He smiled still looking
through the window,
dreaming better worlds,
rain that fell over loving couples,
carnations in the rifles²,
ships leaving port,
the light from a lighthouse, kisses from women that never,
ever looked at him.

Birds in the head and flying away
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dreaming
of still finding lightning bolts with you,
even if time and sand obscure the way to you.

One January morning our man
went up to the top of Torre España³
to see if biting the blue-gray skies
would make the birds quiet.
Looking at the city totally engrossed,
he did not hear the white noise from his chest,
nor mother's, nor TV's, nor office's,
only a far-away beating of wings.

When we realized,
our boy had disappeared.
Nobody on top of the tower saw him leave
tha gray shadow of the building.
Nobody saw him fall to the ground,
Nobody heard him laugh,
only the sound of a hundred birds —or maybe a few more—
escaping from their cages.

Nothing was known of that dreamer,
nor of the song of his birds,
until letters arrived, snipets of his wings
shaped of postcards.

Birds in the head and flying away
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.
Birds in the head and dreaming
of still finding lightning bolts with you,
even if time and sand obscure the way to you.

Birds in the head and flying away
to where the windows are always open,
where the smoke of your steps teaches us to live.