in a library

I was hungry but I didn't eat the bird. It was not me who ate the bird
and the poems she wrote.
Revolution never came from a single step. From the steps it took came nothing else but shadow.
Yes, I was hungry, no breakfast had been served, lunch got its backbones.
But it was not me that ate the bird. We had been able to see it from a distance. Volunteers took the wood.
I took it from a dictionary. In my Sketches from Venice someone eating a bird sits in front of the table. With unspoken knowledge a lady offered all the food it had. Faraway revolutions added to the scenerie. It was not me who ate the bird
and the poems she wrote.
Revolution never came from a single step. It gets served step by step. Large volumes serve it, in the library.