César Vallejo - Confidence in glasses, not in the eye…Transl. Clayton Eshleman, 
Confidence in the glasses, not in the eye; in the staircase, never in the step; in the wing, not in the bird and in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone. Confidence in wickedness, not in the wicked; in the glass, but never in the liquor; in the corpse, not in the man and in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone. Confidence in many, but no longer in one; in the riverbed, never the current; in pants, not in legs and in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone. Confidence in the window, not in the door; in the mother, but not in the nine months; in destiny, not in the gold die, and in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.

Eating the Birds 

We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn’t sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can’t fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don’t stand a chance. We’re mired in gravity, we’re earthbound. We’re ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.

Eating the Birds

Margaret Atwood, Eating the Birds from “The Tent”