Tordos Y Caracoles

That commotion of thrushes pays no attention to matters of homeland and border, of heroes, anniversaries, and flags, not even today, a national holiday, when it bursts into the song of the sun in the pond where they drink, from the tree that hides the nest and the mate, pecking olives, rummaging in the crops..., if the territory belongs to them. A procession of snails was watching them, murmuring about their lack of consideration, at ground level and drooling... Too busy with words to protect things from them, too burdened in their heavy armor to understand one who leaves everything to be himself. Too preoccupied with feeling with their horns, and sending Christmas cards, preparing for a beautiful funeral.