A bird poem
A dead little baby bird is lying trampled on the pavewalk; it didn’t make the flight, it plummeted straight down.
The tiny head severed from its little died up corpse for some reason, lying dead among the broken bottles, the shattered glass shimmering like glitter in the sunlight
And I hear the rustling of leaves and the singing of seagulls, happily feasting on a Danish someone dropped on the road nearby
And in this world, nevertheless, I am happy