The little bird was by the window,
Shivering from the cold.
Its chirps were faint,
As if it had lost all hope in this world.
Fragile, with ruffled feathers,
It fled from all that bore the name of man.
It could barely stand on its feet,
Speaking of pain without a voice.
It had no strength left to stand,
Nor even to rest.
I approached the window, anxious,
Even my breath seemed to disturb it.
I saw a mark upon its body—
A stain of blood, the trace of a stone.
A stone thrown by a child outside the house,
Or perhaps by another, sick at heart.