“Birds flying high above the retreating army!
Why do you suddenly turn and head toward our enemy,
contrary to the clouds? We are not yet defeated, are we?
True, we are scattered, but we still have some energy.”

“Because your numbers diminish. You are less fit to listen 
to our songs. You are no more an audience.
Vultures swoop in to replace us, and Valkyries. And the eastern
wind slams the fir horizons like jagged accordions.”

“Cuneiform of the beaks! Explosions that sprout a palm tree!
Your tunes will be blown out of the sky, too, by the screaming westerly.
We commit them to memory, which is a larger country.
Nobody knows the future, but there is always yesterday.”

“Ye-ah! but our life span’s shorter. There is no tomb or pyre
for our kind, but chamomile, clover, chicory,
thyme. Your valedictory runs “Fire! fire! fire!”
We are less comprehensible. That’s why we need a victory.”