It's usually young men, almost boys.
They leave their homes in spring
no time to waste, as if someone's calling them.
The survivors don't remember
what it was - the soft sweep
of stretched wings
a silent call, like stones singing
in the heads of the insane.
Some of their fathers
had gone before, there is no map
a direction, no route; sometimes
one arrives and returns
to the place he left
to tell the tale, disfigured
clothes threadbare and torn
a look of pure madness:
An eyrie on the cliff
eyes rolled back, lips purple
followed the path between
the roads to get back here.
Rumour has it they listen.

Translation: 2017, David Colmer