What is it, it's a robin that's going to dance
But what is it, it's a half-naked magpie
I'm going to go, a my shelter not far from here
But they would pass, on the other side, over there where everyone disappears
What a shoal of birds, faded lives
They will be hunted the dance of wolves has begun
But what is prey that does not know how to fly
From red to poorly traced lip, the predator is gone
What is the carcass of a lost life
But what is it is trash that no one would like
In truth, the world doesn't give a damn about injured seagulls
I would pick up his bruised body, in my shelter not far from here