I am a fan, a river of feather,
A tumbling, flowing, unbroken stream,
To mountainous peaks and cliffs, I tether,
To the evergreen trees, which filter sun’s beam,
I am tied by the rope of my tail.
I am a frigid south-easterly wind-toil,
The loose shard of sun on which all depend,
The humming life of midsummer soil,
The mouth, the epitome, the river’s end,
In a nebular boat I sail.
I am connected with everyone, everything,
And sing only what all other birds sing.
If cats who destroy in the night hiss and howl,
I do only what my instincts allow.
Lyrebird, artist of fraud and deceit,
I do only that; accidentally cheat.