My precious birds are poisoned with anguish,
Crying shrilly and thrashing around,
Caged inside the withered old trunks,
Hollowed out by insatiate doubts.
Every day I collect their corpses,
Shielding them from the restless flies.
The stench of despair dissolves in the air,
In the fragrance of flowers of lies.
My precious birds have forgotten their songs —
Threads of dismay piercing their minds.
I am surrounded by the remains of my hopes.
My damned garden is now painfully silent.