Going all in on the pretentiousness:
I sit alone, as day dissolves to night
And notice, high above, a bird in flight
Wandering, like the raven from Noah’s ark
Singing just for me, my own skylark
The sound that through the ages poets have heard
Cannot be turned to image, song or word
It turns back on itself like a question mark
That’s the riddle of the song of my skylark
The sweetest songs are those
That tell of saddest thought
My heart rides on your wings
Inside your song I’m caught
What is this dream or vision
Brought to me from afar?
I want to say, although it sounds absurd,
“Thou wast not born for death, Immortal Bird.”
And then the singing stops. The sky is dark.
I’ll never hear again my own skylark
