The birds have ceased to sing in morrow's eve
It is that time of year in which they leave
From hither they’re now gone to seek the warmth
Against the frigid winds advancing forth

The flying pilgrims search for sacred heat
Until they reach as much as they find fit
A thousand ***** were heard and off they went
To find a truer heat as they were meant

Their joyful chants no longer wake me up
As I enjoy my tasty coffee cup
No more do they provide a cheering mood
While feeding babes or searching for some food


*Pilgrimage on Wings by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.