I went to ask Teiresias
Why the harrowed willow, poor analyser of botanical genocides,
Always rests its weeping branches,
On the wooden window
Not one, not three, not six;
But two albatrosses.
Turns out the legendary blind is deaf too.
In a rage, I wanted to shoot one,
But the wind blew colder than usual
Smoothing my fever.
When did the hunter begin to be hunted?