.: I saw at night how birds die :.

You know, chilly blanched fingers,
Pressing feather pages with pain.
I do not need these letters, these lingers
I only feel stuffy from their dust and their strain.

From lines of love of a sick person's unease
To paper smiles melting indifferently in the fire,
You write more and more about your destinies,
As if you do not know my feelings, my ire.

You mustn't forget how others go insane,
Although these eyelashes tremble with pain.
How are you there now, my dear?
'Cause bullets cost only a moment of fear,

I'm doing fine, though at night I might cry.
...You know, I saw at night how birds die.