Oh desire for songs

I don't have songs;
its the songs
which have me.
When do they want, when do they come,
when? Who knows?
Some arrive and make themselves noticed,
they look at me and go in through my eyes,
through my ears, through my skin
and, if they want, they stay and make a nest.
Others pass by but they call to me.
I've spent hours, days and years
through houses, through streets and through cities,
through forests and paths, through wind and sea
in pursuit of them. Oh, desire for songs.
Sometimes I've taken hold of one
and I've hugged it sweetly,
I've walked it around the house;
I've shown it my books,
and the music I love,
the paintings I like,
the love that makes me feel alive.
Sometimes they are rebellious
and I talk to them and they tell me
what they want me to sing:
contempt for all oppressors,
words that can hurt them.
Love and firmness in the struggle
for all those who are oppressed.
Music and comfort and company
for the lonely and outcast.
Oh, desire for songs.
I don't have songs;
its the songs
which have me.
When do they want, when do they come,
when? Who knows?
Oh, desire for songs.